


Colder Than Ice, Stronger Than Steel

by blurryface_95



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 64,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8377666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurryface_95/pseuds/blurryface_95
Summary: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark find themselves trapped in a marriage contrived out of necessity for maintaining the north and out of the greed of a couple selfish hearts. A promise of love and peace hangs in balance as threats loom from all around the westeros, beyond the narrow sea, beyond the wall and from beyond Sansa's own internal turmoil between her need for absolute control and a chance at happiness.





	1. Prologue

Sansa Stark kneeled at the roots of the heart tree, in the godswood of Winterfell. The tormented face etched on the white wood that had once scared her as a child now provided comfort. Her days were numbered, she knew. She had killed Lord Baelish, but he hadn't gone down before delivering his last blow. A most dangerous poison, that killed slowly, but surely, was laced upon the dagger which Petyr always had on his waist. As Sansa strangled the breath out of him, he had plunged the blade into her gut and her fate was sealed. She would last only days now, she knew, and spent her time in the quiet of the godswood. Praying and wishing and repenting and regretting.

Sansa Stark had many regrets. As she closed her eyes this cold winter morning however, only one face came before her eyes. Jon. Her bastard half-brother. Her cousin. Her king. Her husband. Her lover. Her victim. He had many faces, but the one that came to her was that of a green boy of four and ten. How cruel she was to her, referring his as a 'bastard' every chance she got and made sure he heard her, unbeknowest to her that he was the future king of westeros. But for that cruelty there could be an excuse; her lady mother set that precedent. But the cruelty she came to show him much later in life, what excuse did she have for that? Tears fell freely. Decieved and used him to meet her own ends; now that he knew her for who she really was, she hid in the Winterfell for she did not have it in her to face him. She would embrace death in all her loneliness for this is what she deserved. People had loved her, and love deeply they did. She had repayed that kindness with equal vile. Got her father beheaded, could not protect Arya, and broke Jon's heart. She came back to her home, because she knew the ghosts of her family would haunt her and that was what she deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stories that start with a bit of spoilery prologues tend to throw people of, but please read on. There are more intriguing things happening in future chapters.


	2. Do You See Me?

King in the North!!!

The hall echoed where the northern lords had convened to place the winter crown upon her brother's head. Later, the sound would echo in her mind as well, as she layed awake deep into the night. Everything lord Baelish had said also came back. For all his connivance and treachery, at least Baelish wasn't blind like Jon. Like the rest of them. He saw in her something everyone else overlooked. Her blood, her heritage, her lineage. He had made a pawn of her like the rest of them, but he knew she wasn't just a pretty highborn girl. She was a Stark girl, blood of the first men, kin of Brandon the builder. She had reclaimed Winterfell with her tact, even if she didn't fight in the battle in physical. Jon led their forces, and very nearly led them to their deaths. And yet all HER father's bannermen barely even acknowledged her. Lady Mormont had made a fool of her, poked open a wound that had just begun to heal. "Lady Lannister...or Bolton..." she had said, like Sansa needed to be reminded of the way everyone around her played with her destiny. And she couldn't stop them because she couldn't weild a sword like Jon, or Arya. And because Robb had not come for them, trading them for the love of a commoner.

But as much as Petyr had used her, sold her to the Boltons, she could see that he did it as part of a greater plan. And she learned a thing or two from that man. She knew she could never trust him as she once did, but he did plan to see her as queen. He would manipulate her to his own end if they had gone through with the plan, but Sansa suddenly felt like that she could have manipulated him back given enough time and learning.

She wasn't quite the girl she once was. As soon as she fed Ramsay to his own pets, she could feel herself reborn. A phoenix risen from ashes in all her redheaded glory.

Now that plan is as good as useless, she thought to herself. The north had all but declared for Jon, and to undermine him with her knights of Vale would be to start a civil war that could only diminish the chances of a northern victory. The Vale remained loyal to Baelish and Baelish seemed to still have some sort of backup to see Sansa the queen. Even with the recent events of the capital and weakened state of the southern unity, Sansa could not risk dividing the north.

"There must be a way", she mused out loud. The look Baelish gave her at the grand hall wasn't one of defeat, but one urging her to reconsider, so he still probably had something cooked up.

Sansa had no desire to be queen anymore; no longer the wide eyed girl she once had been. She desired no power, she only wanted peace. And home. But it was the indifference, the thinly veiled pity with which everyone around her treated her that made her blood rush to her head. They saw her as the weak minded, frail girl still, who brought upon her lord father's death through her foolishness. But she was more. She couldn't rest till they saw that. Till Jon saw that. And Catelyn Stark did raise her to be queen.

The next fortnight she broke fast in her room, all by herself. She avoided Jon because the goodwill she felt upon seeing her brother after so long had suddenly lost its lustre. She knew it would never happen, but still hoped that Jon will call her to his war council, as she was the only person present north of the trident who knew the Lannisters inside out. But as expected, he had not. He once checked upon her to see why she did not dine in the great hall anymore, and that was it. His eyes had been kind, and his smiles easy. It made it very hard for her to stay angry with him. But he did not see her, understand her dismay at all. And believed her straight faced lie that she only felt discomfit with so many people around her.

She had not seeked out Baelish either, though she knew he had lingered in the keep. He claimed to be Vale's representative in the northern movement. Ravens had been sent to Eeriye, to ask for Robyn Arryn's official support. But in the snowstorm that ailed north persistently seemed to interfere with communication as no reply came. That or Vale was still considering its options. Sansa had already established a network of spies well placed in Winterfell and surreounding villages, mostly through maids and cooks and stewerds. She did as Baelish had once mentioned, only she won them over with kindness and charm, instead of threats on their person and family. Although she did keep in mind all their weaknesses, just in case. One could not be careful.

Then one of the coldest afternoons ever, as she looked out the window in the tower Bran fell from, she heard a rustle of movement behind her. She knew who it was and a smirk formed on her petal smooth lips.

Sansa turned with a slight quirk to her lips, but her eyes remained untouched with any emotion but cold hard disdain.

"Took you long enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this so far, please leave a kudos. Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Thanks for reading.


	3. The Whole Truth - Nothing But The Truth

"My lady, you are a hard woman to catch. And to catch alone."

"Catch alone? I do hope your intentions are no less than honest, Lord Baelish."

"I only wished an audience with the lady of Winterfell, and the words I have for you can only be for your ears only. It is of utmost secrecy, and as such I hoped to find my lady where we could be truly alone. I reassure you, I mean you no harm."

"Like you meant no harm when you left me to die at the Boltons' hands?" Sansa said sharply, before she could stop herself. Showing her true emotions would be a grand mistake in front this snake of a man. He would surely exploit them.

"Can we please agree to let bygones be bygones? I made a mistake, like we all do at some point in our lives," said he with a pointed eyebrow, "but I always wanted you to reach your true potential, and see the rightful inherit the throne."

"So even the political genius Lord Baelish makes mistakes," said Sansa with a chuckle, hiding her face in a mask of cynicism. In truth, his words worried her greatly. Rightful heir? Sansa was of important relations, but she was hardly the rightful heir to the iron throne. What was he getting at?

"All right. I swear to speak plainly and look forward from now on, if you will do the same, lord Baelish. Now will you impart this secret that which can change the course of this war, for I am growing wearier by the minute."

"Please, call me Petyr" the man cooed, turning Sansa's blood into fire as burning a red as her hair, but she stayed quiet. "I have made the most intriguing discovery yet. It turns out your brother is not who he thinks he is, and Lord Eddard Stark was even more honourable than we thought he was," hearing her father's name in his mint scented lips made it all but impossible for her to regain her composure, but she could feel that Baelish was going to break something big.

"Please, Petyr. Stop talking in riddles, you promised to talk plainly," Sansa said tactfully, "If my brother isn't who we thought he was, then who is he? Who is Jon Snow and what does my father's honour have to do with this?"

"Not Snow, Targaryen. And Ned Stark had much to do with this, I am afraid." he said evenly, not even once breaking eye contact, all tell tale signs of true speech. Sansa only stared back, not sure what to say next.

***

All the lords were gathered, it only took a week for all of them as their King commanded them. If Sansa chose to disbelieve Petyr's claims, disregard his witnesses, and deemed the marriage decree a forgery, she could ignore this one last person's testimony.

Bran had returned.

Her brother, her trueborn brother, with the same red hair and blue eyes and wide smiles had returned. He had grown up quite a bit, but there was no denying he was Brandon Stark. Even in his paraplegic, malnourished and weatherworn state, he was every bit as graceful as Sansa, and perhaps more regal than King Jon. The Lord of Winterfell had returned and interestingly the storm had cleared at his wake. People took this as the old gods blessing their new lord.

Sansa knew better.

As soon as Bran had bathed, eaten and rested, Meera showed up in Sansa's bedchamber. "Lady Sansa," she called out awkwardly, her mannerisms rusty but not completely forgotten, "Bran wishes to speak to you." Sansa almost ran to his side. She had hugged him for what felt like ages, their tears mingling in a red haze. She had hovered and worried and fawned over him for hours till Bran went to bed. She was anxious to be with him.

She went into his bedchamber and found Jon already there. A pang of petty jealousy ran through her; Bran always did love them better than Sansa. Jon and Arya. And Robb, her gut twisted at his thought. Nobody offered her any smiles, the tension in the room was palpable. Jon looked straight at her, and said in his brooding voice, "our brother has much to disclose to you, Sansa. I suggest you take a seat."

"Sans, do not be angry that I didn't tell you first. I...I just thought, because this is about Jon, that he should know first," Bran replied meekly. Sansa knew she could not be mad at this child if he slit her throat. And the use of her nickname, as her family called her long time ago, brought a genuine smile to her lips that reached her eyes. "Bran, we are not the children we once were. I am not so petty to be grudged about such a thing," Sansa said kindly, albeit a but haughty. Bran chuckled, "That's what Jon said too, but he also cautioned me to tell you as soon as I told him." So he did give her some credit, some importance, Sansa mused with trepidation. "Is what you have to tell me is all about Jon, or will you let me in on your adventures beyond the wall as well? I am no three-eyed raven, but even I can see that you are not the same boy any longer, the reckless sweet boy who loved climbing as well," this earned a gasp from both Bran and Meera, and a quizzical look from the king. Sansa leaned forward from her cushioned chair, which was set beside the bed to ruffle Bran's hair.

"You know! How? You would spy on your own blood?" spat Meera. Bran looked on his friend wearily, shaking his head almost imperceptibly to warn her not to speak further.

"Lady Reed, I know my brother has returned. But he is still not of age to run a wardenship. As such, I remain the lady of Winterfell, and the wardeness of the north till my brother becomes a young man. I would heed you to accord me my entitled respect. You are a guest under my roof, and protected my brother from her, otherwise this direspect would not go unpunished." Sansa said smoothly, despite her harsh words, her expression remained passive.

Jon broke the awed silence, "But you should not have spied on Bran all the same," Jon said accusingly. "I did not spy on him, Jon. But words get aroud, and Bran has hardly been secretive. I actually stopped the words from spreading farther, and spreading in a manner that we could not control the narrative. I do apologise, Bran, my love." Sansa said to Bran, her expression softening as he gazed upon her little brother.

Bran gave her a tight smile; his eyes help neither apprehension nor any offence, but rather calculative as he gazed at her. Slowly, he began, "No need, Sansa. Now, I shall begin my tale. after I woke from my ailment, I started dreaming about a strange raven..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and if you liked it, please leave a kudos so I'll know :)


	4. The Stark Honour

Sansa had thought she knew about Bran's adventure. But when he told her all the details, she was dumbfounded at the extent of his power. In the corner of her mind, she wondered how Bran would juggle the lordship of Winterfell and the responsibilities of being the three-eyed raven, protector of their very reality?

"...and now, we have come to the Jon part. It is about his parentage. I gazed upon the past, in the tower of joy, and I saw our lord father with-" Bran didn't get to finish though, for Sansa breathed, "Lyanna Stark, our lady aunt. I know Bran. I know that she is Jon's mother, and prince Rhaegar is his father. I know our father lied to us, to mother, to protect Jon." A lone tear trickled down her cheek.

She continued however, directing the words at Jon, "I have known only for a few days, and I didn't know how to say it, what to do. Before you reprimand me, I will have you know that it was Lord Baelish who disclosed this to me. I was afraid it was another one of his devious ploys. You being in power doesn not benefit him and he will do anything to disturb that," Sansa finished.

"What would this discovery gain him? It only means Jon is the heir to the Iron Throne, he has the legitimacy to rule the entire realm." Davos quipped. Sansa spat annoyingly, "Yes. He does have all of that as a Targaryen. But in the north, that is more a curse than a blessing. Surely you have not forgotten what the Targaryens did to the Starks? 

"Three starks were lost to them. The north remembers," breathed Jon. Sansa stared at him bleakly, but Jon was avoiding her gaze. He had a wild look about his eyes, as if the ground had swayed from underneath his feet and he was grasping at empty air to not fall.

For the first time, Sansa pondered about how Jon would feel - no, was feeling - at this startling revelation. He had based his life around the fact that he was the bastard son of Ned Stark. For better or for worse, this shaped him. Ned's guidence, Robb's friendship, Arya's love, these made Jon who he was at his core. If there was one thing that was certain in Jon's tumultuous life, it was the fact that the Starks were his family. Now, out of nowhere, Bran and Sansa were telling him it was all a hoax.

"Aunt Lyanna was not kidnapped, however. She went willingly." Bran added gingerly, partly to break the awkward silence. "And they were married before the old gods. I saw it."

"It matters not. Jon was made king in the north because he was thought to be son of Ned Stark, brother to Robb Stark. Now he is only kin, and the other side of his relations only makes things worse." Ser Davos looked worried, the wrinkles around his intelligent eyes seemed innumerable.

"I know Stark blood runs through his veins, he looks more like father than the two of us, but I wasn't sure how the north will react." Sansa dropped his gaze from Jon, and looked at his feet. She felt guilty for some reason, and could not keep it out of her expressions.

"She has a point," Davos looked at Jon.

"I did not realize you had become so well versed in Westerosi politics, Sansa. Wonder who lent you their expertise, " Jon said with what Sansa imagined as a hint of anger. Sansa was not going to let him judge him however, "You forget that I spent time in king's court while you made wildling acquaintances in the night's watch." She regretted being so mean, but Jon had struck a nerve with his comment.

"Why is it then, that Baelish has not made this public knowledge yet? That would undermine me, achieve him his goal. What, I wonder, is your hold on him that he has not acted yet?" Jon was not going to let this go.

"An empty throne does nobody any good. And a player as strong as you running wild is too unpredictable for his taste. He does not have my consent, that should the bannermen renounce you, I shall take your place. So he remains mum." Sansa said, barely able to keep the hurt out of her face. They really thought that little of her, that she and Lord Baelish would...

"And with Bran's return, he must have had to reconsider all of his plans. If Jon is Robb's cousin, then Bran has more claim than anyone on the winter throne," Meera said pointedly at Sansa.

"Please, do not fight. You are kin, you have to stick together. The north is as strong as the Starks." Davos played the diplomat. "What should we do, my king? Keeping up your bastard Stark pretense might be the smart move for now, as the Lady pointed out."

"No. We have to tell them the truth."

"But your majesty, you cannot take the Iron Throne without the northern army behind you!"

"If I have to lie to get it, then I want none of it. That is not the way my father would have done it. And by that, I mean Lord Eddard Stark." He said his name through gritted teeth. For the first time Sansa realised how confused and heartbroken Jon really was at all this.

Sansa breathed deep. This was it. She had to play it carefully, she was in the most crucial part of the game. Lord Baelish and she had planned it with precision. Merely removing Jon from the throne will not do, some people would still rally for him. The man came back from the dead, for seven's sake. Sansa had to make sure they only take away enough power to accommodate Sansa.

Jon continued, "Should the bannermen renounce me, Sansa can take over for me or Bran can too, in a few years. I shall counsel them, fight for them, whatever they need from me.. I don't want the Iron Throne. I only want to make my father proud in the heaven. I shall stand by my family, for they are the only family I have ever known."

"Do not be stupid, Jon. There is more honour in you than the rest of the westeros, but that very same honour got our father killed. You can do good for the realm, but you must start thinking like our enemies if you are to beat them," Sansa sucked a breath in as she finished. Bran murmured his agreement. 

Davos seemed to linger on her words, a certain measure of admiration shone in his eyes. As she fell silent, he jumped in, "We do not even know if the northern lords will accept a woman as their leader, or a cripple." Jon's eyes blazed with fire at this, prompting the old knight to hastily add, "I mean no disrespect, nor do I think Lord Stark or Lady Sansa won't make excellent leaders. But 'tis the way the world works, your highness." 

Sansa mused, "If they do not accept you despite our aunt's blood, why should they accept me? And Bran is but a child, we should not make him into a pawn..."

Jon stopped her in her tracks, "Bran should not have to bear that burden, he has already been through enough. I..." he looked gravely at lost for words. And so, so tired, Sansa realized with a spark of pity. "I will think on this and we shall reconvene tomorrow morning." With that he turned on his heel, and left. Without so much a sideways glance at Sansa.

Meera said something about resting and left. Davos soon followed. Sansa gave out a defeated sigh, and snuggled next to Bran in his bed.

"I do worry about him. Always brooding and ever so stubborn!" Sansa said hotly. Bran took her hand in his and squeezed lightly. 

"I can see the future, you know. But I cannot tell anyone," he whispered to her. Sansa supposed she ought to be shocked, but she was not. She raised her head and looked at him quizzically. "But for you, I will make an exception. Our cousin will live his life to full years, no harm will befall our king. You needn't worry, Sans. You look better in smiles, than frowns." 

Tear pooled in Sansa's eyes. It was all she could do to lay her head down on his shoulder and try not to break down completely from the relief his proximity brought him. Also the guilt.

She did not regret manipulating Jon, but lying and pretending in front of Bran nearly made her come undone.

"Do not ever dare leave me, Brandon Stark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran a bit long because inspiration suddenly hit me. The next one will be up by Thursday night. Thanks for reading, as always.


	5. Dreams and Forebodings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Jon's POV because I realized this cannot be Sansa's story alone. Enjoy.

Very early the next morning, the morning after all the revelation, Jon headed down the snow laden path to godswood. It was still dark and shadowy, the air chill and crisp in Jon's lungs. The sun still lurked behind heavy, dreary clouds, flashing the downworld with a ghastly pale illumination. Jon had slept fretfully during the nightly hours. When he could not toss and turn anymore, he got up, pulled on his breeches, tunic and his fur cloak, and headed out. He absent-mindedly picked up Longclaw; he was a creature of habit and caution these days.

His feet ended up dragging him to the godswood. In fact, he was so deep in thought that Bran took him completely by surprise as he was making his way towards the pool.

"Jon! Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Bran was sitting under the heart tree, over a fur lined rug. Meera was perched right beside him, and her dark eyes assessing Jon's movements.

Jon nearly jumped out of his skin and cursed inwardly for being so easily caught unawares. He huffed a breath, which came out a swirling mist. It was freezing, Jon noticed though hardly felt it. "Bran. What are you doing here?"

"Remember, I told you, the heart trees are my source of power. If I were a warlock, then the heart trees would be my wand," Bran said happily, his eyes sparkling. He seemed to be chipper this morning. "I asked Meera to accompany me here, I wanted to think awhile during the night, and the heart tree makes my head clearer."

"Meera, maybe you should catch some sleep, or get some hot breakfast from the kitchen I'll keep Bran company," Jon said kindly, his words full of reassurance. There were dark circles under the poor girl's eyes, her face pale and clammy from the whipping northern wind. Surprisingly, she stood up and went back toward the castle without a word. Either she was really tired, or they were expecting Jon and Meera had removed herself so Bran may talk freely with Jon. He could not determine which Stark's transformation scared him more, Bran or Sansa. It was staggering how they were no longer the sweet natured children whom Catelyn Stark used to chase about the castle. They had become aloof, cold, and calculating in a way Jon was deeply uncomfortable with. "What has the world done to these poor souls?" he often wondered. 

"Have you decided, Jon?" Bran broke him out of his reverie. Jon kneeled down to tuck himself beside the red-headed boy. Bran reminded him of Robb, they may have looked alike with pale, freckled skin and a mop of Tully copper hair. He could not stop himself from leaning in and messing it up.

Bran laughed, the sound music to Jon's ears. It reverberated through the noiseless wood like tolling bells, reminding Jon of happier days. Summer days.

"Yes, brother. It was always going to be the truth. It will always be the truth. And I am not doing this for honour or any of that pretentious southron horseshit, but because I believe the least I can do for the men who have pledged their life to me is give them the truth. Of me." Jon looked straight ahead, his gaze faraway.

Bran chuckled, "Of course. And I am with you on this. Mainly because I have already seen it happen. Sort of..."

Jon's had snapped back, and his grey eyes were on Bran's blue ones, grasping and reaching for some understanding of his new abilities. He sighed and gave up.

"Then why ask me at all?" Jon had not meant to sound so resentful, but the exhaustion and anxiety of the past month had finally caught up with him. His guards were slipping.

"Because it keeps me human," Bran whispered softer than a snowflake embracing the earth.

Whatever retort Jon had had prepared, he bit it back. He swallowed hard, and pressed his fingertips to his temple, "I am sorry. I have not been sleeping so great, lately," Jon tried to smile sardonically, but it rather came off as a grimace.

"Are you having bad dreams? Is that what keeps you up at night?" Bran asked simply.

Jon's eyes widened into two big o's. He exclaimed, "Now you will tell me you even know what I dream of?!" Bran's hands went up in defense, "No. NO. I just guessed, judging by your tired shoulders and the dark circles."

"Oh." Jon exhaled in relief. "Yes, and no. To answer you question. My dreams are so vivid, it almost feels as if they were real. They are not all bad, they are just...different. Impossible things, forbidden things." Jon could feel his cheek burning, he could not believe he was finally talking about the dreams that have haunted him since he came back to life to someone other than himself.

"But they are more than dreams, I think. They have started to come true. And that is what wears me out, little brother. Do you happen to know something about why this might be occurring?" Jon glanced at Bran hopefully.

"This started happening when Melissandre brought you back from the dead, through the grace of the lord of light, didn't it?" Bran looked at him, his expression one of deliberation. Jon nodded. "Then perhaps the lord of light is giving you glimpses of the future. You saw that in your dreams, that you are the son of Prince Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna...that's the reason you took it as well as you did." Bran's eyes were scrunched as he put two and two together.

Jon found himself murmuring, "I did see it, though you were not the one who told me, it was a ... a beautiful man with white hair and dragon's wings. And then last night I saw that I was on a throne, and my eyes were searching for the woman I most loved in the whole world from the crowd. Then I looked beside me, and a silver haired girl with purple eyes sat there on the queen's throne. But she was not the one who I was looking for."

"It makes no sense, brother." Bran said with furrowed brows.

"It never does, until it happens. I saw Rickon, he was clad in white armor and sunlight reflecting off his auburn hair created a halo on his head. He smiled and told me it was time to let him go. He told me not to bring him back. And then it all came true." Jon could hear his voice catch.

Bran's eyes shone with a terrible sadness, threatening to spill. Jon could not bear that look, and lowered his eyes. Looking up through his dark eyelashes, he resumed-

"Anyway. I also saw myself being engulfed in fire, my sword was on fire too. And then I saw... I saw Sansa with child. My child. I hated myself for it. It was wrong, so wrong because I am her brother. May the gods have mercy on me."

"You are not our brother, in the literal sense. You are our cousin." Bran said quietly. Jon could feel the blush creeping up again, beyond embarrassed that he was talking about this to Bran, of all people.

"Well, I didn't know that back then, did I? It's still wrong. I was brought up as your brother. And I swear, I never thought of Sansa in that way. But I dreamed of her in my arms, and she whispered that she was in love with me and I said it back. The very night Sansa came to the wall with Brienne, I dreamed this. And I thought I ought to be put in the deepest pit in hell, but now I know. It isn't that impossible anymore, if not wholly wretched, because I am her cousin. It is going to come true. Is it not?" Jon looked at Bran surreptitiously, checking for any sign of disgust or reproach. He did not find any.

They sat in silence for who knows how long. They saw the sun come up from behind the cloud, painting everything in a red haze. Finally, Bran spoke-

"I do not know the right words, Jon. The world has changed so much for us. All the myths, all of Old Nan's stories are starting to ring true. I can tell you this much though, you play an important role in the coming long night. Anyone with half a brain can tell you that. Being able to see the future is a heavy burden. But it does not always come true, you know. The time is not a thread, there is no one future. Endless possibilities, various outcomes of the same decision; I should know, because I have seen them all. So, you always have a choice in the matter of your own fate; never, not for a moment, let your visions take that away from you. Make you think you have no say in what happens to you. We shape our own destinies. Not gods or lords of light. We are Starks."

Jon could not find words to reply, so he just kept silent, nodding his head. They went back to their silent musing, only broken by Jon's steward when he came to inform them that breakfast had been served and the Lady of Winterfell awaited their arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Till then :)


	6. Our Moment Has Come

The small council room was in chaos. At Jon's request, Sansa presented Petyr's witnesses and the royal decree of marriage between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen before all the lords. Even a letter, bearing the high septon's approval of the marriage was also produced. Sansa frowned. This seemed like too much of a wild card, from a man like Baelish. She started to feel like she had not understood his intentions clearly yet. But there was no stopping Jon. The die had been cast.

"Everyone, settle down." Boomed Jon's voice. It even stopped Sansa in her track, who was arguing with Lord Manderly that Jon's heritage did not change anything. That he was still the boy raised by Ned Stark as his own son, and all the accomplishments of Jon still stood. That Jon had come back from the death to save the north.

"Make a decision. Come to a consensus. If you wish me to stand aside, I shall. But I urge you to still rally behind the Stark family for some northern vangeance. Winter is coming. The blue eyed enemy cares not for our politics. We must stay united, no matter who fathered me."

But it seemed no one could agree. Some wanted Jon out, some stayed loyal to him, some wanted Sansa in his place, some wanted Bran. It was absolute chaos. That was when from some dark corner, came out Petyr Baelish.

"My lords, if you will heed me for a moment. I rather have a proposition that will suit the wants of each and every one of those present today."

Jon scoffed, "And what is that proposition, Lord Baelish?" The crowd murmured with agreement. No one seemed to like Baelish much.

"May I speak freely, your grace?"

"Yes, yes. Get on with it..." Jon's intense eyes were burning into Baelish's evil ones, clearly trepiditious about what sort of trouble he was going to stir up now.

"Your grace, and her ladyship Sansa Stark must enter an alliance of matrimony."

Suddenly, the room was quiet. Sansa knew this was coming, yet to watch the plan finally see the light of day, to watch it unfold seemed to take her breath away. She was glad that it did, because it only helped her look truly surprised at the proposition. They were not supposed to know that she all but wrote the speech.

A sound cut through the silence like steel cuts human flesh. A sharp intake of breath. Sansa's head whipped toward the sound, and she wished instantly that she had not turned. Jon looked like all of his darkest nightmares had come true, his eyes were wide and dark with what? Apprehension, maybe, Sansa thought to herself; she could not help but feel a little insulted. It stung to think that idea of marrying her really horrified Jon that much. She knew it was probably because Jon thought of him as his sister, not because he thought she was a grumkin in human flesh costume. With annoyance she pushed away this line of thinking- she did not exactly want to marry Jon for his haunting good looks either.

Seizing the opportunity, Baelish pushed, "That way, everyone is happy as Jon Targaryen is king, Sansa Stark is queen, the Winterfell passes to Brandon Stark. This will also unite two of the greatest houses of Westeros, a union unlike any other before. His grace is a dragon, raised by the wolf. And by marriage, he will have a legitimate claim to the north. Lady Sansa will rule north, and lord Targaryen the realm. This makes the most sense."

Jon broke the silence. His voice was as piercing as needle, reminding Sansa of Arya, "Lord Baelish talks of sense, but it seems to me he has lost his. Sansa and I were raised as siblings. Such a union is not suitable," he paused and looked around, daring anyone to contradict him. When he resumed, his speech came out resigned, as if he only fought this because he had to quell his conscience, like he knew this would happen whatever he said. "We are not Lannisters."

That earned a few chuckles and murmured agreement. "But you are a Targaryen, your grace," Baelish said with a smirk. "And you are only cousins, and as for your feelings, we all make sacrifices for the greater good. I am sure Lady Stark will agree."

All eyes were suddenly on Sansa. She gulped. Somehow, she felt like the little girl again, all alone in King's Landing, without a clue how to play the game that everyone else was a master at. "I would be lying, if I said I do not see the merits in this solution..." Sansa opened. She risked a glance at Jon, he looked utterly scandalized by her line of speech. She kept on, "but I also share Jon's sentiment. He may be our cousin in blood, but he is still our brother in our hearts. My lords, I urge you to keep loyal to Jon. Me and my brother lay no claim upon the winter throne. Let Jon lead us. Let Jon guide us. He is the man my father raised, my father loved as he loved Lyanna Stark. Accept her child as your liege. Do you owe nothing to her?"

Lady Mormont spoke up, "Why should we owe anything to Lyanna Stark? She sparked, or at least provoked a war that got us in the tumultuous political climate we are at currently."

"Aye. If she hadn't run off with that silver haired boy, our Lord Torrhen Stark would still be here. She disgraced her family, she disgraced the north." Some lord said with a huff.

"Hold your tongue, if you wish to live." Jon growled coldly. Beside him, ghost bared his teeth and bullied the lord into cowering behind his son. "Do not slander lady Lyanna, you have no right."

Sansa silently remarked how he said Lyanna, not mother or aunt. Again she felt sympathy for this boy who had no sense of belonging, and could not seem to find any, however much he tried. His black brothers turned on him, Wildlings only tolerated him. Even the Wildling girl rumoured to have snagged his heart, turned a weapon on him in the end. He came back to Winterfell thinking it was his home, only to lose it again. Sansa once learned from Robb that there was scarcely anything Jon wanted more than to know who his mother had been. Now when Jon finally did, it had not brought him peace at all.

The growing rumble in the hall tore Sansa out of her reverie. Now was not the time to get soft; she did not belong anywhere either. Now she was fighting to belong in Winterfell, in the world. She could afford to get dragged by the sorrows of this beautiful boy. Half the north had broken out in fights with each other in the congested room. The other half were quickly catching onto the idea of marrying the cousins to ensure unity. Just as they had planned. Sansa looked at Petyr, eyes shining. But she looked away almost instantly; the hungry look in Petyr's eyes made her queasy. Had she taken on more than she could handle? Her heart fluttered inside her ribcage like a tiny bird.

"My lords..." Jon faltered, "I...I need to think on this. As do Lady Sansa. This is something we both must agree on. I ask for a night to think."

Jon ushered Sansa, they needed to talk. As they made to leave, Lord Manderly called from behind, "Only a night, your grace. No more. This must be settled quickly so we can start rallying our army and making battle plans."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. A Jon-Sansa heart to heart is coming up in the next chapter; stay tuned.


	7. You Can Still Say No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have forgotten about the wedding traditions in the north. If I get anything wrong, feel free to point it out.

"You do not have to do it, Sansa. Please, I beg you, do not feel obligated. This is another trick by Baelish to make your life miserable. The gall of these people, denying your birthright...these moments, Sansa, these moments make me feel that wildlings are better than us. Westeros treats women like they are property, to be married off to whomever they whim..."

"Jon, Westeros is worse to bastards. Why are you not happy that you no longer are one? And they are treating you as property too," Sansa said coldly. She hated patronising Jon worse than all the other Jons.

"But this is wrong. From so many different point of views. I cannot marry you, you are my sister!"

"It is sickening to me as well," Sansa said quietly. They were in the godswood, the most secure place they could think of. The old gods watched over them, Jon felt, so they could speak freely without fear of being spied upon. "And not because I do not care for you. It is because I do. Being sold off like cattle in the guise of political matches, no one deserves this. And I should know. I do not want you to experience this. And then there is the brother thing." Sansa had prepared her words previously. Words that were strategic but sympathising; carefully chosen to goad Jon into agreeing. But she found herself saying something else entirely. Telling Jon about her trials would gain nothing but pity from him; but surprisingly, it made her feel better. Like the ghost of a Sansa who loved romantic ballads and poems. Who believed in the goodness of this world. Pathetic, she thought as bile rose to her throat.

"I had not even thought about that," Jon said in a mortified whisper. "I am so sorry Sansa, that you are put in this situation again."

"Come now, this isn't your doing. It is the stupid Westerosi traditions." Sansa urged. "Let us not give in to this stupid demand. Take a risk, and go to war whoever remains to you no matter what. I dare hope we can take the Lannisters without those bigheaded lords."

Jon appeared truly upset, guilt-ridden. "It is my fault. If I had just kept my mouth shut..." "This would have gotten out eventually, Baelish was not likely to sit on this for long. Better they find out from you, than some southern scum." Sansa said soothingly. This was not all part of her plot, she actually wanted to make him feel better. Why? Sansa knew she was not doing anything at all to aid their plans, if not completely sabotage them. Get a grip, Sansa took a calming breath, lips pursed.

"We cannot risk this. We either marry and get justice for Robb, for my uncle and my aunt, for Arya, for you," Jon took her face in his hands, in a purely brotherly fashion. But Jon and Sansa had never been close like that, this was something very new to the both of them. Sansa's breath caught at the touch, a lump rising in her throat. Her palm rose to cover his without any volition; she ran her thumb over the calluses on his knuckles. Jon's hand was warm, even in the bitter coldness of the open. But he must have been feeling the winter nonetheless, as a shiver seemed to run through Jon's body, he shifted a bit and his fingers were like honey on her cheeks. "Or we do none of it. We relent on this path of vengeance, fortify winterfell and brace for the Others' invasion," he finished his speech, but his palms lingered.

"But we have to go south," Sansa breathed out, not being able to raise her voice farther. Jon just stared back, a slight dazed look was plastered all over his face. Maybe he can't hear me. She moved toward him, a little, barely an inch. He gasped. His chest expanded against hers, brushing the swell of her breasts over the coarse material of her dress. The sensation quickened her pulse, which was throbbing in her veins at this point, begging to be released. It was something Sansa had never felt before; she wanted to crawl out of her skin and let it all bare for the man in front of her. 

Jon looked like someone who was thoroughly enchanted by whatever they're experiencing. But the dazed and heady look in his eyes were replaced by something darker; he looked strained. As if he was fighting against the pull of a tide with he every nerve and fibre. The drum of an internal struggle coursing through his veins. Sansa's fingers closed on his wrist. She could feel his pulse through the soft pale skin there. His other hand he placed on her back, his fingers caressing her soft hair at the nape. Hie touch seemed feverish, he closed his eyes.

What were they doing? What was happening?

"Jon...as much as I hate to say it, but maybe we can do this. Just for show? We will be married before the realm, but I shan't expect you to fulfil your husband's duty. And when we get what we want, we will annul this union." She whispered out. Sansa closed her eyes, and leaned in to his palm. It smelled of sweet cider, leather and oddly enough, fire.

"But we deserve more, Sansa. What would father...no, uncle, say if he were to see this?"

"I daresay he would be proud of our pragmatism. How we handle our marriage is none of the realm's business, north or south." Sansa said defiantly, and was awarded a spark of humour in Jon's eyes. They had inched closer, Sansa realized with a jolt, so close that she could see how his eyelashes hugged his flushed cheek. Her heart fluttered unreasonably in her ribcage - what is wrong with you - she scolded herself. Her hands twitched at her sides.

"It is quite peculiar, though. We are the guardians of the entire place, now we are getting married. With no parental supervision. They are not here to see any of it," Sansa's eyes danced with humor. "We could do anything. We have all the freedom in the world and yet we have none it." Her voice had become tinged with bitterness, she averted her gaze.

"If one good thing comes out of this, it will be that I can protect you better with you by my side. And you can counsel me; you have run the keep phenomenally these past days. Feeding and lodging so many highborns is not an easy feat." Jon lowered his hands to her shoulder. He was all brotherly again. As if the last ten minutes had not happened. "Now, let us go back to the keep. It is no longer safe to lurk in the woods after dark."

Sansa took his arm to cease the nervous twitching and proceeded to the castle, chuckling, "With the great King Jon the Winterslayer by my side, what do I have to fear?" Jon laughed at that too, a sweet sound Sansa had never cared to have an ear for before. It felt good to make him laugh. Sansa felt extremely confused at her own thoughts. She was supposed to hate him, but did not seem to be able to.

As Jon was taking his leave after delivering her to her chambers, Sansa called out to him-

"Hey Jon," it was rather impulsive on her behalf. Jon whirled on his feet, his eyes rather expectant. Sansa felt blood singing in her veins, rushing to her head to intensify all of her sensations, at the way Jon looked at her now. There was affection, which she had grown accustomed to over thethe years. But there was a flicker of longing so brief that she would have missed if all of her senses were not heightened.

"You deserve better too," she finally spoke as the silence had begun to get awkward. "But life is hardly what we deserve, but rather what we get thrown into. Good night, Jon." She turned and went inside, not giving him a chance to respond.

***

It was the day of their wedding. They were to be wed in the northern fashion; before the old gods. Jon had asked Sansa if she would rather be wed in a sept, but Sansa did not see any point in fussing over it. Neither Jon nor Sansa really cared. After all that they had seen and done, keeping faithful to any god seemed impossible.

Bran was going to give her away. Sansa stiched the direwolf sigil to her grey maiden cloak herself, and a red three headed dragon on Jon's jet black cloak as well. Everything was set in motion, Sansa thought as she woke up that morning. Things were definitely not smooth down this road, however. Most lords were relieved when Jon and Sansa finally declared that they will get married. But there was the issue that Jon had joined the night's watch, forsaking titles and marriage. Sansa was also married twice. Davos, and the Lord Commander of the night's watch attested to the resurrection of Jon Snow. This meant that once he had died, his vows to the black brothers became null and void.

As for Sansa, a few lords declared that Sansa wed both Ramsay Snow and Tyrion Lannister under duress and so it would not even be considered. It was also ascertained that she was not with Ramsay's child, an event that seemed to irk Jon and Bran more than it did Sansa. I guess nothing scares me anymore, Sansa thought as she brushed her auburn hair until it shone like coal embers.

"Except for Petyr." A nasty voice whispered in her mind.  
He had asked for a meeting with her, a formal meeting; she wondered what it was all about. Dreaded. He and Baelish no longer met in the godswood or old towers. They did not talk at all in public. Instead they made their plans through trusted spies and cryptic messages. Why would he suddenly call for an audience?

Jon had already been given Robb's bronze crown fashioned after the old kings of the winter. Sansa was yet to see hers, newly made, out of white gold. Jon had said it was a surprise, but Sansa suspected that it was not yet out of forgery. It was said to be inlaid with ice diamonds that were found in the vaults of Winterfell. Even though Sansa outwardly maintained that there was no need for such lavish jewelleries and parties in these dire times, inwardly it felt kind of good. It was also tradition that the King should have a grand present for his queen on their wedding day.

This might have been their wedding day, but war did not wait for the merriments of men. Soon after she had dressed and eaten, Sansa was called to the war council of the king. As she arrived, Jon gave her a shy smile, not quite used to their newly betrothed status. "Has the raven arrived from Eeyrie yet, your grace?" Sansa asked. However it was Petyr who answered, "Yes, my lady. And as expected, Sweetrobin has gathered an army of ten thousand and ready to march north, or south, as the king demands. They however, only insist upon support and not fealty." Lord Baelish had become a constant presence in the councils. It had become clear to everyone that he was the voice of the Vale, not the weak child Robyn Arryn. And when Jon had tried to protest, Sansa had played the voice of reason part quite well.

"Very well, then. They are to stand by, and not to declare for us right away. They should remain supportive of the sham of a Lannister queen, but alert and defensive of their lands." Jon dictated as the maester quickly wrote the letter and tied it to a raven. "So, my gathered lords here today. I have an announcement. I want to form a crownsguard after the fashion of the Kingsguard of south. Soon I will be wed, have heirs, and their lives will be threatened. I need peotection. It is prudent." Sansa was surprised at Jon. "Have heirs?" she thought wildly, again the odd fluttering started to bloom deep down. Jon's eyes caught hers, it was a bluff. For a moment there...

He was changing, she thought. The old Jon would have cringed at the idea of other people protecting him or his family.

But she nodded her encouragement, and Jon continued, "However, I will never make anyone be my crownsguard, nor force them to forsake title and marriage. They must enter the brotherhood on their own accord, but must serve at least five years. During these five years, they are not allowed to be marry, however."

The lords murmured agreement. The council went on for hours after that, planning dividing their forces to defense and offense. The night's watch would be fortified with two thousand strong northern men for now, mostly traitors from house Bolton, Umber and Karstark. Repairmen and forgers were also dispatched to renovate old castles and walls. A portion of the Manderly fleet was sent to Eastwatch by the sea, although no one but Jon thought it was likely that the Others will come by the sea. Bear Island, now esteemed as the strongest ally of King Jon was tasked with protecting Cape Kraken and Stony Shore from any Ironborn threat. Jon saw no merit in wasting men there, as reports of problems within the Greyjoys had emerged. Euron Greyjoy, grasping the opportunity followin the mysterious watery demise of Balon Greyjoy, apparently took over the salt throne and saught to do away with Asha and Theon Greyjoy. Fearing for their life, they had sailed to Essos with most of the Ironborn fleet. But as Manderly stated, one could not be too careful.

When the sunlight ceased to bloody their faces, Jon dismissed the council to prepare themselves for the royal wedding. As Sansa made to retreat after the men, Jon placed a hand on her forearm to halt her motion. Sansa looked questioningly at Jon, and Jon looked deep into her eyes as he whispered, "I only said it to appear serious about this," he gestured between them, "the marriage, I mean. Many of them have doubts yet."

"There will be much pressure on us, in the coming days, Jon. We cannot keep up the ruse forever." Sansa said wryly.

"You can still say no," Jon croaked out. Sansa gave a sigh and said, "You can too. But we won't. Let's just get this over with."


	8. Judas Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out longer than I wanted, but I decided to keep it. I wanted to give a picture, prompted by the comments, of how torn and panicked Sansa really is. She is doing cruel things, but she is not cruel.

Sansa had just got out of the steaming tub full of soap water and a hundred different oils. A younger, a different Sansa would have cared for such things. But not the woman who looked back at her in the mirror. She hastily dried her body and hair, and put on her undergarments.

The lack of a handmaiden was disturbing though. Tying the corset at the back herself was turning into a huge debacle when she heard a knock. Sighing with relief, she yelled, "Come in." She thought Beth, her handmaiden, had come back from her extra duties in the kitchen, preparing for the wedding banquet.

A figure came up behind her, and started to do the knots in her corset. Sansa was applying scented oils to her wrists when the overwhelming stench of mint invaded her nostrils. Her eyes shot up, and as she had dreaded, the pale face of Petyr swam into her vision. She could not help flinching; and saw the hurt register in Petyr's face. He recovered quickly though, the much familiar sneer now decorated his thin lips.

"What are you doing here, Lord Baelish?" Sansa said mechanically. This man was invading her privacy, daring to come into her private chambers unannounced. But there was nothing she could do; that was the price you paid for making a deal with the devil. This was only the beginning of course. But she was determined to stand her ground. Until she would not have to anymore.

"Why, I believe I made an appointment, requested a formal audience, Lady Sansa," Petyr said sardonically. He was done tying the knots, but his hands lingered on her back. "You don't have to play coy, no one can hear us. Everyone is either in the grand hall, or roaming the greenhouse."

"You requested an audience. Those do not usually take place in the bedchamber. You should have waited in my study, like a regular petitioner...tell me, why did my guard not announce you?"

"I did not want to hinder you; I knew you would be getting ready for your big day. And it is a big day for both of us. I did not want to get in the way...you look beautiful as always," Petyr breathed slowly, his breath stirring the soft hair behind her ear, his eyes on Sansa's reflection in the mirror.

"Yes, you are doing a grand job at that, lord Baelish. And I wanted to know how much you paid my guard to forget you were ever here?" Sansa could feel her voice rising.

"Does it matter? Why are you getting upset? I just wanted to see you...this might be the last time in a long while that I get to be with you," he moved mid-sentence, and took Sansa's hips in his cold, clammy hands. Her skin there was bare. Petyr tightened his grip, kneading the flesh there, leaving a trail of gooseflesh where his long, effeminate fingers touched. "Like this. Intimate. Oh, you smell heavenly, lady Sansa." He leaned in for a kiss, and Sansa met his lips in the middle.

Usually his kisses were brief, not impassioned but they were never before like this. He had never touched her like this. There was desperation in his breath, urging in his fingers. His body pressed against hers; Sansa kissed him back. She hated it. Her skin crawled. Her stomach revolted. Her eyes closed shut, not in pleasure, but to escape her reality.

After a few heartbeats, she drew away. She stared back at Petyr, her chest heaving as though she had just ran a flight of stairs. Petyr's hands clutched the chair at her dressing table, leaning for support. He took a shaky breath, and said hoarsely, "After tonight, you belong to him. That boy, playing at king. You know what you must do, don't you, beautiful Sansa?"

Sansa could feel anger bursting behind her eyes, sizzling in her mouth, and said defiantly, "If you think I will ever belong to anyone, you are sorely mistaken. And there is a big flaw in your plan; there can be no heirs. Jon would not even look at me, let alone touch me..."

"If only you had not foolishly promised him that this was all just a ruse!" Petyr said in a deep but angry voice.

"What was I to do? I had to do anything to convince him. I had to say what he wanted to hear... he would never even think to defile me in that way."

"Are you really that naive, or are you doing that thing gorgeous women do? False modesty...pretending to not realize their beauty, their charm, the effect they have on men, the power they hold over them?" Petyr was sneering viciously. "I know where you get it from...day in and day out she strung me along. She knew how I felt, she knew..." his sneer had turned into venom.

"You keep confusing me with my mother, Petyr. Do you realise that no matter how many times you kiss me, you will never have Catelyn Stark? She chose Ned Stark, and she died loving him. You cannot turn back time, if there is one thing you cannot do."

Sansa paused as her words settled down on Littlefinger's face like whiplash.

Petyr regained his composure, and once again strode towards her, though this time he kept his hands off her. "Jon is a man. He may be remarkable and honourable, but he is a man. At the end of the day, even the biggest warrior wants to lay down and bury himself in a beautiful woman; to succumb to the sensations. Your beauty and innocence...use them against him. We need an heir, before we dispose of him."

Sansa choked and sputtered at that. "Dispose? You never said anything about disposing him before...I thought, I thought..."

Petyr seemed bored. He chuckled wryly, "What other way to get rid of a kind, little girl? You are not developing feelings for him, are you?"

"He is my family! I cannot be an instrument in killing my family. The gods will never forgive me!" Sansa said desperately.

"Well, that is why you will leave that to me. You needn't stress yourself about this tonight. Look pretty and polished and you might accomplish your task this very night." Petyr winked at her, sending cold needles down her legs. With that, he turned and left as unceremoniously as he had come in.

Sansa collasped on the ground. What had she done? She was stupid, so so stupid. Of course Jon would have to die. Petyr wanted to be the king, Jon was the only thing in his way. Had she not predicted this outcome, or did she not care? Panic rose in her chest, thinking about a world where Jon was no more. Another Stark lost to the void. Bran would be devastated. Certainly she could not let that happen? She didn't like Jon, but she didn't want him to die either. She never had. Or had she?

There had to be another way.

You kill Petyr. A soft angelic voice suggested in her brain. Kill the coward.

But Sansa doubted if that was even possible, killing Littlefinger. Let alone by her. Maybe this was all too much for her.

You should have stuck to sewing and looking pretty in silk. That nasty voice echoed in her mind. A knock sounded distantly, as if in another lifetime, in another place. This time it really was Beth, telling her that she was late. Scurrying to get her dress out, offering her a hand to get up, doing the laces with nifty hands. She was vageuly aware of this as if it was happening to someone else.

Her mind was whirling. The reality of all she had done and was going to do crashed on her. She had thought she could play the game and win- like Cersei. But right then it seemed that she was more likely to end up burned to ashes, charred to the bones and teeth, like sweetfaced Margaery.

Sansa was playing with fire, and she had just started to feel the heat. Not the warm, glowy feeling, the intense, painful sensation.

***

Sansa had found one of her mother's old gowns in one of the servent's room. Some Stark loyalist had procured an assortment of their possessions and kept them hidden during the Bolton seige. There she had found a gown of the color of molten steel, with blue winter rose embellishment on the hem of the skirt and the bell sleeves. The bodice was encrusted with blue stones of many shapes and sizes, making the gown a glittery cascade of regalia.

She donned this gown because frankly, she didn't have many fancy clothing left. This gown did not look like her mother's though, so maybe she had it made for Sansa when she was in king's landing. Or it was from her younger days.

While she was dazed and lost in thought, Beth had sat her before the dresser, and carefully done her hair. She had let her hair down with nothing but braids circling her temple. Sansa put two sapphire encrusted combs in her hair; they were gifts from her first wedding, to Tyrion Lannister. She wore pearl earrings, but did not want to put on the necklace that was laid out. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the irrational fear that it will choke her. Her throat already felt like dry paper, swelled, making it hard to breathe.

She decided the gown was enough. She threw her maiden cloak over her shoulders, thanked Beth for her wonderful work, and walked out. She found Meera heading toward her room, flushed from running. She was wearing a dress for the first time Sansa had ever seen her; she looked pretty and put together, but the fierceness that her eyes bore, that could not be muted down by anything. Sansa had been uncomfortable about that, at first, but she had grown to admire - even feel safe with - that fierceness, for it meant the protection of her precious Bran.

"Do you even know how late you are? Everyone is panicking. They think you have bolted. We have to go, now!"

She reached out and took Sansa's hand and dragged Sanasa behind her. Sansa barely managed a few words of apology and greetings, but words died down as she focused on not tripping over the sheer material of her dress. Meera stopped running as they approached the gateway that led to the Godswood. It was decorated most ostentaiously with lanterns and torches that spewed out light onto the inky blackness that surrounded them.

Her heart skipped a beat, as she glanced upon the rows and rows of people carrying torches, waiting for her. Looking at her. She stopped walking. Meera tiptoed up to whisper in her ear, "Sansa, he is over there. You have to walk there. Don't stop now, Bran is waiting over there. And Jon is waiting for you." And paused. Then as if, like an afterthought she added, "You look riveting today, Sansa. Not that you always don't, but today more so." She gave her hands a light squeeze, and moved inside the crowd.

The next few minutes were a blur. The traditional words were exchanged. Bran spoke on her behalf. This had all happened to her once before, in the exact same manner. But it couldn't have been more different. She was not afraid for her life. She was not surrounded by enemies. The biggest difference was that the man in front of her was not a monster, if not entirely human either. He was more somehow, she felt. And the fact she had chosen him also made this so much better, no matter the treacherous reasons why she did so. There was something liberating in his eyes that beckoned to Sansa, her heart soared into the darkness of his eyes, a black canvas like the sky, with illuminating freckles which looked like stars.

"Sansa Stark of Winterfell, do you take my King as your husband?" Ser Davos's gravelly voice tethered her to this world, she flew back down. He was speaking in lieu of Jon's father. Rhaegar Targaryen, of course, was beyond this mortal world; beyond the scope of asking Sansa's hand for his son.

"Yes, I take this man." Sansa did not know how she did it, but she found her voice. She raised her eyes and they tumbled into Jon's. His emotions were unreadable. He looked quite handsome in a red doublet with his Targaryen cloak draped over one shoulder. His hair was cropped shorter, but his beard had stayed on. He looked nothing like a Targaryen, and yet he was. It went to show how looks could be deceiving, all cloaks and daggers. He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable at the way Sansa was staring at him, she thought. She was aware that her lips were slightly parted, breathing through her mouth. But as he took her hand to turn her around, she saw the guests were waiting for her to turn back and head to the warm throbbing walls of Winterfell so they could too.

But that was not it. Two men came forward, carrying two boxes in their hands. They halted in front of Jon and Sansa and opened the lids. Two crowns, bronze and white, layed there.

Right, the crowning ceremony. How did that slip her mind?

Lord Manderly came forward to take the bronze crown, and laid it upon Jon's curly black hair. It fit him as if it was meant to, and all around the cry boomed once again. KING IN THE NORTH. There was a chorus of metal against scabbard as everyone held out their sword in his honour.

Jon gently unfurled his fingers fron Sansa's, and Sansa winced, suddenly craving his warm proximity. But then she saw him take the white gold crown out of the box, and turn toward Sansa. His gaze held the question - if I may. Sansa nodded. His hands slightly trembled, and his voice shaky but sure-

"Now I give you, Sansa Targaryen, Queen in the north."

Everyone was shouting once again, this time in her honour. But Sansa only saw Jon as he moved into her, taking her face into his hands and brushing her lips with his, as if he could not help it.

Sansa desperately wanted to believe. It would have made things easier. But the people in her life rarely made things easier for her. She wanted to believe that Jon did it for show. To reassure the lords. But it wasn't that. It really wasn't. She could feel that in her mouth, through his lips.

She kissed him back. And no matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the guilt. But she kissed him and tried to forget everything else. It almost worked.


	9. My Damsel In Distress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter where Jon gets introspective. Nothing much in terms of plot movement. I have writer's block. I don't know where to go from here, tbh.

Jon did not know what to feel, what to think, as he stood there under the weirwood heart tree, with Davos by his side, and Bran in front of him. The torches and lanterns provided ample illumination, but darkness in a cold winter night in the North had its way of creeping up on you. Sansa was late. Really late. People were getting restless, stirring in the cold damp snow. But no one was going to leave, this was quite the talk of the realm at this moment. No one would miss the chance to witness a Targaryen wedding done in Northern fashion, a Targaryen marrying his sister, the crowning of a Targaryen king in the North.

This was quite impossible, Jon had thought. After learning of the truth about his parents, he had all but packed up his things, thinking that it was a matter of days until he would be thrown out of the north. He had thought of fleeing to the free cities, changing his identity...or maybe go to the dragon queen who was also a Targaryen. Would she believe him if he told her that his father was Rhaegar, her brother? Even if she did, that would have posed another danger altogether. She might kill him, thinking he meant to lay claim to the throne. 

He ended up not embarking on such adventure; but taking a path that posed just as many threats. Petyr Baelish convinced the northern lords that if Jon married Sansa, that would give him sufficient legitimacy to rule the North. And to his surprise, Sansa agreed. She could say no, but she didn't. Even though since Sansa had reunited with Jon, she had apologised for the way she used to behave toward him, and she seemed genuinely elated to find him alive. She was not repulsed by him anymore, but it still astounded him how easily Sansa seemed to catch onto the idea of being his wife. Jon could not wrap his head around it, despite the warnings of his visions, that he would end up marrying Sansa. They were raised as siblings, but even so, he never thought much of her. She avoided him, and he reciprocated in kind. After getting her back, Jon was beyond himself, but it was more due to the fact that a part of his family had lived. Not so much because it was Sansa who had lived.

Jon felt ashamed for feeling this way, but it was true. They were never close; in the past months, they had formed a new kind of bond. They were the survivors, no one else could feel the anguish they felt, no one could comfort them as they did each other. When Sansa agreed to marry him, Sansa saved him, gave him somthing no one else could at that moment. Winterfell was where he belonged, and because of her, he wouldn't have to run from it again, haunted by his identity, things that were beyond his control. For that, he would always be grateful.

He really wished Maester Aemon had lived, more so because he had turned out to be his ancestor. He had loved Jon anyway. But being a Targaryen, and a man Jon had learned to rely on like no other, he really missed his sage words and kindness.

But at his core, Jon never wanted to be a king. He did not want that responsibility. There was a time, when he was a child, when he was envious of Robb. When he coveted the title of the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. But now all he wanted was to live a peaceful life. But that was just wishful thinking. He knew he could never escape this. He would always be a target, always be hunted down, always have things happen TO him, rather than do what he wanted.

He wanted revenge. For Robb. For Rickon. For little Arya. For Ned. Even for Catelyn. And Sansa and Bran too, who had lived, but death would have served them better. But it did not burn as bright as it did before. Everybody had hurt somebody. Westeros seemed to be fueled by revenge. The way it was going, Jon could only see one end, where blood runs in the rivers and nothing but bones and wreckage furnish the earth. He often wondered if the Cold Things were gods' wrath come upon them.

But he knew he had to see this through. He had to secure North and brace for the Winter's attack. He just violently disagreed that war was the right way to do that. War meant dead bodies, and dead bodies meant more recruitments for the Night King. But they could not flee to the South if they did not conquer South. It was a conundrum that had kept him awake many a night.

Another conundrum that ate away at him was Sansa. Sansa Stark. When she first arrived, Jon felt nothing but relief. Then he had that dream and everything changed. He could not stay away from her enough. It made him feel squirmy, and guilty. Then she lied to her about Littlefinger. And Jon knew he should be grateful, but it ate away him that she had lied to him. Cold faced. Ha had had enough betrayal to be not wary of people who lied to him. He forgave her, but it would always be there at the back of his mind.

He kept having dreams about her. Dreams that left him sweaty, breathless, wanting something more, his hands itching to have her underneath him and do unspeakable things to her, dreams that always left him starving. And it made no sense because at first he did not feel that way about her.

That day in the godswood only made things more confusing. He was arguing with Sansa about whether being wed to each other would be a good idea. Sansa was trying to convince him thar it was in their best interest. That it was the only way. But Jon didn't believe her. Nothing Sansa said felt genuine anymore. There were flashes, where Jon would feel that Sansa was really speaking from her heart, but too much of her seemed distant and aloof. Sansa thought she was fooling everyone, and she almost succeeded, but she never fooled him.

But then suddenly, her walls came down. Jon could feel the emotion in her voice, her broken dreams, unrequited expectations, isolation reverberated in her words. She was just as lonely as he was, but way more lost. Jon wanted to hold her, comfort her; but that gave way to another set of problems. Her proximity lit his cells of fire, every touch felt like tiny explosions. The icy blue of her eyes pierced his heart and he was shaking all over. He wondered if Sansa noticed. She probably took it for a chill, and nothing in her actions suggested that she felt the same way. She thought of him as her brother. She said as much. Jon felt a pang of hurt settle in. Hurt and disappointment. Why was he feeling this way? What was happening? He had to figure out what was going on with his cousin, not get butterflies in his stomachs whenever he came close to her.

Even though Sansa pretended that she did not want this wedding to happen, but only accepted it because she felt compelled, Jon could tell that this was not the case. She wanted it, for whatever reason. It was not just for need for revenge, and it certainly was not for the unity of the north. Was it for him? Jon did not think so. This was the girl who had spent her childhood making Jon's childhood miserable. Things were amicable between them, but she was not in love with him. It seemed something personal, something ambitious to her. And that made him wary. Wary of Sansa. Wary of her intentions. Wary of her connections with Littlefinger, although they were rarely seen together anymore.

Although every fiber of his being told him to stay away from Sansa, he also found himself pulled towards her. Maybe it was the dreams; his future goading him to make itself come true. Maybe it was the fact that Jon had always liked the thrill of danger, of darkness, the harshness of the winter. And Sansa was all of it. Sansa was not the same daydreaming pretty girl anymore, she was something more. She carried herself differently. She had become cleverer, confident, more commanding, albeit a bit arrogant. And she was still far too naive. But she was also tormented by her own demons. She cried when she thought no one would notice, she sat alone in the greenhouse, her eyes downcast. She was suffering, Jon could feel it. And not just from the grievances. She was conflicted, and Jon also had a feeling that Littlefinger had something to do with it.

Despite all this, despite all of his knowledge and observations and instinct, when he saw Sansa walk toward him, her face alight from the torches burning, Jon felt desire flood his veins. Sansa was beautiful, always had been; but her hair had never shone brighter. She seemed to be gliding in her pale silvery dress. But it was not how mesmerising she looked that made Jon's heart constrict.

It was the vulnerability on her face. He had never seen her like this. All emotions stripped bare. She looked nervous, anxious, guilty, hurt, tired, dazed...and also happy? It made no sense, but the corners of her mouth turned up as she saw her, and he saw his own desire reflected in her eyes.

She wanted him too.

She kept staring at him all through the ceremony, and Jon could not help but feel ecstatic at that. None of them could avert their gaze, silenty appraising each other. Jon memorized every curve and line on face, her almond eyes, her soft lips, sharp nose. Sansa seemed lost, and when she took her sweet time to confirm that she indeed took him as her husband, Jon's heart fluttered in fear.

But no, she said it. It was done. Jon felt his whole body relax. They were married. No turning back now. Jon was not a fool; he could not decipher why Sansa had wanted this so bad, but he knew to be cautious. He should not feel hope. This was another trap. Another betrayal. Benjen was never coming back. He could never have a chance at true love.

But after the crowning, as he looked at Sansa, it finally dawned on him. Maybe it did not have to be true love. Sansa was conflicted, and desperate for her place in this contentious world, she may be wounded beyond repair, maybe she was broken, and just like a shard of glass, she would only cut anyone who attempted to touch her. But maybe he could save her. Maybe he could put it all back together, all the missing pieces. Their destinies were forever entwined, that much was clear. But he could not give up on her, like Robb had. He could not lose her like he had lost Ygritte. If Sansa thought he was the enemy, he would convince her that he was not. He would make her see that the world was not all bad, not all cruel. He would show her kindness, affection, mercy, faith. That there are things to be cherished, to be loved still. They were on the same side, if only Sansa could see it.

Everyone deserved a chance to be saved.

Like the North was now his responsibility, and the survival of Westeros seemed to be too, he would make Sansa Stark his responsibility too.

He bent down to kiss her, and she did not reject him, or shove him away, or flinch. Jon yelped in surprise. Did Sansa want him as much as he wanted her at that moment? Why couldn't he figure her out? Jon savored the roll of her lips, the taste of her breath.

It was exactly how it was like in his dreams. Alarmingly hot, needy, perilous. A shiver went down his spine, and ever since he was reborn, Jon had never felt so alive.


	10. The Sandal And The Crown

There was music and dancing; Sansa's mind was involuntarily pulled back to the last great feast she attended here in Winterfell. Pulled back to Joffrey. How had she not seen the cruelty in those beady eyes? How utterly happy she had been, oblivious to the plots already in motion, her head in the clouds. She now knew princes and kings were rarely gallant. They got damsels in trouble more times they rescued them. Broke more hearts than they won. They had everything, so they strove for nothing.

She suddenly became aware of a stirring beside her. She looked up to face Jon's outstretched hands. Manderly said from across him, "'Tis customary for the bride and groom to dance at the wedding feast..." his speech was slurred, eyes drooping. "Clear the stage, the royal couple shall now take the floor." His voice boomed all around them, the crowd died down to a murmured excitement.

Jon seemed mortified at all the attention, but Sansa had eyes only for Jon. He had not drunk all evening, not even a sip of mulled wine. He stayed alert, and when Sansa had passed him a plate of pie, he had politely declined. Sansa had realised with a start that Jon only ate from his own hands, and drank only water. He was afraid of being poisoned.

Sansa was not exempt from the list potential assassin.

Then why had he kissed her like that, out in the godswood? Was that all show after all? Had she been making things up in her mind?

But Sansa took in his form as she put her hand in his. His unruly curls were as dishevelled as always, the crown sat atop it did little to tame it. He seemed a bit relaxed than before, younger. His eyes gave away nothing, but his grip made Sansa think of how he had held Sansa just hours ago. Firm and reassuring, also a bit insecure, as if she would slip between his fingers if he were not careful. He wasn't wrong in thinking that.

As Jon pulled Sansa into his arms, one hand placed lightly on her waist, another draped on her back, the music started again. With a flush of embarrassment, she recognized what song was being played.

The Queen took off her sandal and the King took off his crown.

It was the unofficial song of the bedding ceremony; they had vetoed it right out of the bat, but still the song and the implications it made got Sansa all hot and bothered. She glanced at Jon sideways to find his cheeks flushed as well. But he twirled her to the beat, and all around more people joined them.

Jon could not dance. Of course he couldn't. He never had learned, never had to, being raised as a bastard-born. He never even attended the feasts with the rest of the Stark children. And now, there was a feast thrown in his honour. Sansa didn't mind taking the lead, showing him where to step, making him look better. Soon their bodies melded into one, their minds working in unison. Jon was getting the hang of it, and enjoying himself quite a bit.

Sansa was very much aware of his warm hands on her skin. She could not help but compare the comfort of Jon's touch to the cold, shivery assault of Petyr's. Where was he anyway? Her eyes swept over the crowd, but could not find him. She however, caught Bran's eyes, seated where their lord father used to sit. He smiled gently at her, his eyes tired but happy. Bran seemed to think this wedding was a great idea. He had said it was because there was no better man for Sansa than Jon. If Sansa noticed how he had refrained from remarking if she was perfect for Jon, she did not give it away.

Jon had then informed him that this was just a pretense, but Bran had only smiled his all-knowing smile. The three eyed raven's smile.

She returned his gentle smile, her eyes twinkling, and returned her gaze on Jon. She was startled to find him studying her face. Blood rushed to her cheeks under his stare, there was that look of desire back in him. His voice low and rumbling, Jon said intently, "I am sorry if I disappointed you with my choreographic skills; I never imagined that I would someday dance with a highborn lady at a fancy party; certainly not one as pretty as you." The words seemed to escape him before he could bottle them.

"What you lack in skills, you make up in flattery, Jon," Sansa joked, but her laugh came out more like a huff. She was short of breath, though not from the exertion. The song had changed into something slower, something melancholy. "Really, there is no one else I would rather dance with in the whole world," Sansa found herself mumbling.

Jon's head whipped up in surprise, he appraised her words silently, looking for deception. But there wasn't any. Sansa had meant it. No one had ever held her with as much respect and care as Jon. She knew some women going insane for passion and heat, but Sansa had learned to appreciate stability and comfort.

The moment stretched out, unbroken. Jon's eyes probed hers, finding the answer he was looking for. He pulled her closer, her chin hit his shoulder awkwardly. Sansa was just as tall as he was, if not more, so the usual dynamics of dancing didn't apply to them. She heard him inhale sharply, his body tensing all around her. She turned her head, resting against the crook of his neck. She breathed him in, he smelt like soap and something else that was entirely Jon. It was astonishing how her body responded to his; she could hear his heartbeat, loud and frantic, under her ear. Soon her heart picked up the beat, strumming in rhythm. She placed her hand over his heart, and felt the hardness of his chest.

They were both lost in the moment. She did not want it to end, whatever this was. Jon never let his eyes wander anywhere but on Sansa, hyper-aware of her every little movement. Then the song ended, and the hall erupted in applauses. Jon broke apart abruptly, as other people claimed their hands for the next set. As Sansa was led away by a bold looking knight, she looked back at Jon, and he looked as disappointed as she.

 

After a few more dances, Sansa grew tired. She found Jon seated at Bran's chair. Sansa wondered why the ground of the hall had suddenly become uneven - only to realise that she was wobbling on her heet. Bran had retired ages ago, Jon informed her. "That one had the right idea," Sansa said, laughing. "I am so tired, and my head is spinning!" Jon stood up abruptly, his expression darkening. "You should not have drunk so much wine, Sansa. What were you thinking?" He draped one arm around her shoulder to steady her, even as he scolded her, his touch was full of concern and care.

"I wasn't. I don't. That there, is my demon, your grace." Sansa said sarcastically. Jon silenced her with a whipping look.

"You have had enough feasting for the night. Let's go." Most of the lords were past pleasantaries, but Jon bid Davos a good night who was appraising them with his wise eyes. Then he led her up to their new chamber. It was especially put together for them, the king and the queen. Bran had not taken Ned and Catelyn's chamber, it remained empty, untouched; none of them had the heart to change anything. The northern lords, ladies and lordlings, well fed and drunk for the first time in many months, carried on with the merriment. Her legs swayed, and she tripped a couple times, and Jon cursed under his breath as he caught her. Was she really that drunk? She was dizzy and her head was spinning, but some of that was also because Jon was clutching her waist.

Sansa walked in through the door first; this was the keep's best guest chamber. It was draped with Targaryen sigil, an attempt at giving Jon his real identity back. There was nothing of her in the room, nothing Stark. She was not so sure she deserved any either. She took off her slippers, and something soft rustled her feet. She looked down to find a wolfskin rug sprawled on the floor. So it wasn't all alien. And it was not like they had dragon hide lying around to lay down at Jon's feet anyway, she thought bittetly.

Jon locked the door behind her, bent down to take off his boots and came up to stand beside her. Sansa looked in the mirror, placed at the corner. They looked truly Royal in their crowns and cloaks. Sansa's hands went to her crown automatically, it really was a marvel. The ice diamonds brought out her eyes, as Meera Reed had remarked. The white gold was in stark contrast to her red hair, just as the bronze was to Jon's dark curls. Jon's eyes followed Sansa's hand movements in the mirror, and he asked, "You really like it? You are not just saying it because you think that's what I want to hear?" Jon had a strange look in his eyes, like he did not know what to do with his hands. They hung limply by his side, his eyes darted towards the bed and his cheeks flushed. He did not know what to expect of the night. Neither did Sansa. It was confusing, whatever it was that was blooming between them.

Sansa turned to face Jon, a small smile lining her lips, "I love this crown, Jon. I couldn't thank you enough for a gift such as this one." With a moment's hesitation she added, "And I am glad you took Robb's crown. I want nothing to do with it."

She must have said these words with more resentment than she had intended upon. Because Jon narrowed his eyes and spoke in quiet tone, "What do you mean, Sansa? Robb loved you. I should know, because he was so protective of you since you were born. And when you were held hostage in King's Landing, his anger and sorrow shone through the letters he sent me." Somewhere along the line, Jon's voice became accusatory. The yearning had disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a cool fire. Sansa inhaled sharply, "If he was truly so frustrated and vengeful, when did he have time to bed women? And how did his wandering hands not stop at the thought of my begging hands for mercy at the king's court, or why did his wandering eyes not stop at the thought of Arya's unmoving eyes as she saw my father's beheading?" Her voice was quivering with emotion.

Jon, however, more angered by her words screamed hotly, "Robb was young, he was younger than both of us right now! And you should know a thing or two about being young and naive. At least he didn't betray the ones he loved, deceived them!"

The words whipped Sansa harder than any lash she had taken at the court. She knew what he was talking about, and she had no comeback. He was right, after all. She also realized, Jon was close with Robb. Accusing Robb was a wrong move on her part. antagonising the King might undo all of her and Petyr's hard work. She cursed herself quietly for being so emotional and forthright with Jon. She wondered what had come over her. She let herself believe that something could happen between them like some infatuated little girl. That he could anything but repulsion and pity for her. That he wasn't the only thing standing in her way.

All this kissing and dancing and drinking had turned her into the thirteen year old Sansa whose heart melted at the first sign of kindness from people. She was not even sure if it was kindness or out of loneliness that Jon had kissef her, or danced like that with her. It definitely was not the start of something else, something deep.

"If that is how highly you think of me, Jon, then I really have nothing more to say. It's quite late, I think. I...I am going to go change and then we will retire to bed. We have a long day tomorrow," Sansa said impassively. Jon seemed to struggle with words as he opened his mouth, his brows furrowed in hurt. He seemed furious, a twinge of guilt glittered in his eyes.

Without another word, she walked toward the screens. Jon made to follow her as if to stop her and turn her towards him, but she was already behind the screen and started pulling on her nightgown. She could hear Jon's nervous pacing from the other side of the room, and then his shuffling as he dispensed of his vest and breeches. Sansa was already done changing, but she waited until the sounds of Jon's movements subsided; she had no desire to see Jon naked. Not after this.

She stepped and was startled to find Jon standing in from of an open window. Cold breeze rattled her bones. He was wearing black trousers, and his shirt front half open. His curls were flying every other way in the night air, and Jon seemed oblivious to the cold.

At the sound of her feet, Jon turned back and smiled his adorable lopesided smile. "Welcome back. I thought you were never coming out."

Sansa's rage faltered at the sight of him. "I didn't want to intrude on you, you were changing." She half whispered.

"That's quite thoughtful of you." Jon said plainly, no hint of sarcasm. He meant to be polite and nothing else.

They stood there, facing each other. The awkwardness stretching out between them, Sansa could feel him getting farther and farther away from her. All the electrifying emotions from when they were dancing gone, only the dull pain of desire and wistfulness remained.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Jon's voice invaded her ears. "Gods, Sansa. You must be freezing." He hurried to close the window and took her hand to drag her toward the bed. Sansa's heart leapt to her mouth, drumming so hard against her skin that she was sure Jon could hear it.

But Jon only tucked her in the bed, and slipped under the cover himself. Before turning back though, he said, "I didn't meant to talk to you that way, back then. But I loved Robb. He was my best friend and my best ally. I just couldn't stand you accusing him like that." He breathed deep.

"No, I understand. I mean, I think I do. I never had a best friend. I had Jeyne, who said everything she thought I wanted to hear. And Robb grew distant as we grew old; he despised me I think, for always caring about girly things." Sansa tried to keep the isolation out of her voice, but failed. "It's alright. We wouldn't be a proper husband and wife if we don't fight." She tried to push humor to hide the hurt.

It earned a smile from Jon, a fullblown grin. Sansa found herself chuckling along. It was warm inside the cover, and more warmth seeped into her as Jon shifted closer to her. He was a giant walking fireball, it seemed. Had he always been that way?

"But Sansa, I want you to realise something. We can't control who we fall in love with. We just can't. And Robb was always true to his heart, he would never stand for anything other than marrying the woman she loved. The matters of heart, you know all that. You have to forgive Robb, or you will never find peace." His voice was solemn. Their bodies didn't touch but Sansa was very aware that if she moved her legs the littlest bit, it will come into contact with his.

"I forgave Robb a long time ago. I just cannot forget. Matters of heart, Jon." Sansa closed her eyes, and took a shallow breath.

Jon fell silent beside her. And gradually, Sansa's body relaxed, breath deepened and she fell into the throes of oblivion.

But not before hearing Jon sigh and whisper, "I hope I can make you forget, Sans."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this too long? Oh well. Still no plot movement and it makes me infuriated :/


	11. We Have Hope Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took such a long break...is anyone still around to read this? I wrote and backspaced so many times and ended up with this. This is a corny Jon POV chapter, where their very confused feeling for each other start to take shape. Jon has hero complex, that is what I am trying to establish here. Not that he is stupid. He genuinely believes his love can save Sansa. So I wrote his perspective a bit. Enjoy!

Jon's attention slipped at the faintest of noises; but it was as familiar as his own. Gradually it grew, and grew until Jon was jolted away from his vivid dream. He woke with a start, and as per usual, found Sansa crying out in her sleep beside him. She was thrashing, her limbs twisted and tangled in the sheets. Beads of sweat crowned her head, hair pasted onto her temple. This night, she was begging Walder Frey to spare her mother.

Jon's hands went toward her out of his own volition, cupping her shoulders, and soothing words flew out of his mouth. This had become routine, of course. The extent to which Sansa's past haunted her became clear to Jon in the week that followed their wedding night. Every night she went through the terrible ordeal of dreaming up all kinds of nightmarish things. Every night Jon would have to placate her, and goad her back to her fitful slumber. Some nights Sansa would wake up middle of her nightmare, and would be terrified of going back to sleep. Jon hated the world, for making a girl as young and green as Sansa so fearful of her own subconscious.

He had asked her the first couple times what she saw, if it was Ramsay or that inbred Lannister she saw, but she always claimed that she could not remember. But Jon knew better. Nobody who cried like that in their sleep ever forgot about what had broken them down. He did not press her though, it was one secret she was allowed to keep, even though it hurt Jon that she had felt the need to hide anything from him.

Jon took her into his arms, and painted soft stroking swirls with his hand on the small of her back. They were not in Winterfell anymore, but on their way to King's Landing with half their army marching ahead. Their tent was the biggest and grandest of them all, but for all its glory, it was still terribly cold inside. Sansa's body warmth was very much welcome to Jon on this particularly cold night outside. Sansa relaxed into him and ceased the mumbling, her head resting on his chest. Her hair tickled him to no end, but it smelled of lemon and lavender, which Jon had grown to appreciate as a rather hefty combination. With the heat and the smell of Sansa seeping through his bones, Jon himself was lulled back into sleep.

***

Jon couldn't have slept for more than an hour before he once again woke up. But this time instead of Sansa, it was he himself who had a nightmare. And this time, instead of drawing closer to Sansa upon awakening, he inched away from her as he sat up. His heart was hammering down his ribcage, and fire burning through his veins. His head was pounding, and he was seeing red in his eyes. This had not been just a nightmare, Jon knew. This was a premonition. He could tell by the way his body reacted, the way the images clung to his vision even as he drifted awake, burning their fiery imprint upon his mind. His head was spinning, so he covered his face with his hands and drew his knees closer. He could hear the blood rushing through his hands, a percussion so loud that he was afraid it would wake half the camp up.

He had seen the future. A premonition. At first he had thought he was dreaming of the day the night's watch had betrayed him. But as he looked closely, he realised he was in a forest, a clearing where snow carpeted the ground beneath his feet. And his assailant was behind him, driving the knife at his back. The familiar scent of lavender and mint clung to the hand that gripped his shoulder. He saw Petyr Baelish standind between the trees, seemingly elated. Jon turned his head with great effort to catch a blur of red hair and blue eyes and in an instant he had known the familiar clutch of slender hands. It was Sansa. And she had betrayed him. The last thoughts as he lied there and life drained out of him was muddled with confusion and anger and hurt.

He knew it was not just a nightmare from the vivid quality of his vision, and how he had experienced and remembered everything with excruciating details. It was undeniably real.

Jon did not know how long he sat there like that. It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes, for all he cared. His premonitions had not led him astray yet; despite what Bran had said, the future seemed set in stone. What he saw, had always come true. Oh, how he wished Bran was here so he could talk to him about what to make of what he just saw. But Bran Stark, the lord of Winterfell, had stayed back to brace against any attacks from the Night King. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, their lord mother had always told them. And judging by the turn of events after the Stark lordlings left their seats, it seemed like good counsel to everyone. Bran was the only one who knew about his dreams, he was also the only one who he could disclose his suspicions about Sansa to without fear of discovery and the consequent damage to their war campaign. The Crown cannot afford to appear divided under no circumstances, after all.

He could not very well send a raven, Jon knew they got intercepted by spies on a daily basis. Jon felt so frustrated, so lost that he wished he had stayed dead. All this confusion and indecision regarding Sansa was killing him from the inside. This felt like the final straw.

Things were finally getting good between him and Sansa. They had not had a fight since their wedding night, they got along much better and Sansa was actually a valuable counsel. She also sparked a flame of patriotism and loyalty among the Northmen who looked up at her and found not only their lord Ned Stark and his unwavering adherence to justice, but also their lady Catelyn Stark and her unwavering loyalty to her family.

They had become so much closer and it was easier to talk to her, to reason with her, to love her. They had not kissed again, he had not laid a finger on her for fear of her rejection. But he had wanted to, badly. And all those dreams that showed him that indeed, Sansa would one day give him a son with hair as bright as the flame and strange eyes like violets sparkling in thorny bushes, and all that would happen between them to bring him to life, did not help with the craving for a taste of her skin. He could barely fight it days. But he fought them, because he did not know if this is what Sansa wanted; yet.

But she was warming up to him. And the more she warmed up to him, and accepted him as an ally, the less susceptible she became to that vile old man's manipulations and vices. He knew she still conversed with him, and tried to hide everything from Jon, but her visits were becoming less frequent. Jon was almost convinced that it was because he was slowly winning her over; but that overcautious voice in the corner of his mind poured ice over all the spark, "or maybe you are doing exactly as Littlefinger wants so there is no need for them to scheme as much."

So how could she end up murdering him? They had arguments sometimes. And he could tell Sansa was jealous of his power and position, but she did not seem to hate him out and out. Had he been so blind that he could not see that much hatred upon her face? Or was she that good at pretending?"

Jon startled as a ray of gilded sunlight fell upon his eyes. The sun had come up, he had been sitting like that, clutching his hair, his mind whirling at a thousand scores per hour for a long time now. He lifted his head and looked sideways at the form of sleeping Sansa. She seemed to peaceful, so innocent with her hands bunched in front of her and her chest slowly rising and falling with every breath she took. She was magnificent. But Jon also knew the fire beneath her soft heart, and strength beneath those soft hands and the malice beneath those soft lids. He did not, for a moment, believe that she was not capable of doing what Jon saw her do. If she believed that's what she had to do to survive, she would do it. Didn't they say she killed Joffrey on his wedding day in cold blood?

What was he to do now, was the question. Should he confront her? That could make her see her the errors of her way, but that would also lose Jon the advantage of her ignorance about Jon's premonitions. Also, if he confronted her, who was to say she would not try to kill him in some different way at a different point in time? And what if he failed to see it coming this time? And maybe she had not even planned it yet, thought of it yet. After all, they were going to have a child together, were they not? He also saw that happening. So obviously, he had a considerable amount of time before this monstrosity of premonition came true.

He could imprison her. Lock her up, or have kingsguard be present with her at all times. Sleep in a different bed than her; but all of this risked exposure as well. If people found out that he had imprisoned his queen because of some dream he had, they would lose faith in him. Like they had lost faith in his grandfather, the Mad King.

He could have Petyr Baelish killed, or imprisoned so that he could no longer pollute Sansa's soul. This course seemed to be becoming more and more alluring to Jon lately. Why did they need him, anyway? He knew the answer. For the vale. He knew that stupid little Arryn boy only listened to Littlefinger. He had to resolve this issue sooner rather than later.

But Sansa could still kill him on her own. Imprisoning Littlefinger might even turn out to be the aggravating factor that would turn Sansa against him, for all Jon knew.

And there remained the fact that this might not even come true. Could you really punish someone for something they hadn't done yet, but might do in the future? Was that morally sound? It hurt to look at her, looking prettier than the moonlight. It hurt how much he wanted her even at this moment, with his spine still tingling where she plunged the dagger in his back. From her face still burning where he cradled it and held him as his knees gave in and he plunged to the snow. The memory was still fresh, a memory yet to come, and screamed at him to get away from her. To break this spell she had bounded him with. But he couldn't. He stuck frozen on the spot, his eyes tracing where the slim strap of her slip had fallen down, leaving her shoulder bare. Fire was blazing again, someone must have come in and rekindled it while they slept. For once Jon did not feel the cold, with the sun riding down his back and the fire in the corner, but his insides were chill with dread.

Sansa's eyes fluttered open and fell straight on him. Despite the situation, despite the last few agonizing hours he had spent brooding over this girl potentially being his downfall, Jon flushed at being caught gawking at her. But Sansa only smiled at him, not noticing the blush creeping up his cheeks.

The smile melted away into alarm when he didn't return the smile as he usually did. She registered her ghastly appearance, and worry bloomed in her sleep addled features.

"Is everything alright, Jon? I mean, is everyone okay? Bran..." She sat up, the covers falling down to her lap.

"Everything is alright, for now. And Bran is doing mighty well, from the last correspondence we had just a day ago. There is no reason to worry." A stab of jealousy administered to his guts to see how her attention always went to Bran first. The world could be burning but Sansa would always run to Brandon and not look sideways at who she threw into the fire for on her way.

His voice came out eerily calm, and very mechanical. Jon was surprised, he had half expected himself to yell at Sansa. That is what he felt like doing.

"Oh," Sansa said, her brows still furrowed. "Is everything alright with you, then? It seems like you have seen a ghost or something. That unflattering pallor on your face, Jon..." she absent-mindedly lifted her hand to stroke his side, as a sympathetic gesture. Jon could not help flinching away from her touch. His gut twisted at contact, and everything inside of him revolted, and instinct took over. It was evident, and made Sansa stop mid-sentence. Myriad of emotions played out behind her gaze; hurt, rejection, anger, sorrow, before the steeliness took over. She lowered her eyes, and made to get up from the bed as she went, "If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to tell me. I did not mean to press you, or make you uncomfortable..."

And Jon scrambled for words. He was doing this all wrong. The last thing he should do was to push her away, punish her for things she had not done yet. Probably not even considered doing yet. If he had any hope of stopping that future from ever happening, shutting her away would crush that sliver of chance irrevocably.

Again his hand shot out on its own, closing on her wrist to stop her from getting up. "Sansa, wait. I am sorry. I just had this bizarre nightmare, and I still have not recovered from it yet. So it really is nothing, you see, yet it is weighing down mind." His voice came out hoarse and shaky, and he wondered if Sansa would believe him.

Her hair was falling like a cascade around her face as it was bent down. When she looked at him from the curtain of flame, her eyes were reassured and relieved. "You could have just said so, you know, instead of making it seem like it was something that I did." 

Something that you will do, Jon silently remarked. But he kept his eyes steady and solemn at her, as she continued, "Do you want to talk about it? About your dream?"

"Is that fair? You asking me to divulge what goes on inside my head, when you never extend that courtesy to me?" Jon replied solemnly. He could not keep the edge off his voice. Suddenly he felt quite petulant and childish.

Sansa now looked squarely at him now, her chin up and her mouth quivering. She swallowed and Jon's eyes involuntarily drifted down to her throat, the smooth and supple skin caught light from the fire.

After a while, she started with her voice tinged with weariness, "I see a lot of horrible things, Jon. Some of them from memory, some from recounts, some concocted by my own imagination. I see them all, you know. I see you going down in battle sometimes, too. I see you..." she stopped abruptly, pink blotches sprawling on her cheek.

"You see me what?" Jon urged her on, his hand gliding up from her wrist and cupping her elbow now.

"Nothing. So now you know my demons...tell me of yours." Sansa's huge eyes reflected concern.

"My demons... I dreamed of, you could say, losing you, Sansa. Or more like, you lost your way...your way to me." Jon struggled with words, like he always did when Sansa was this close to him. And with his hand gripping her arms, her skin connected to his. "I cannot afford that, you must know Sansa. I believe in you. I believe in us. I cannot lose you." The desperation in his own voice sounded foreign to Jon. He was torn, between the two sides of himself. One that wanted to get away from her, and one that wanted to bury himself in her. Was this always going to be like this? Him falling in love with girls who wanted to kill him? Wait, was he falling in love with Sansa, who he thought to be his half-sister only a month ago?

The look in Sansa's eyes brought him out of his reverie. He expected her to look revolted, disgusted, bewildered, confused, embarrassed even. For all his life though, Jon did not expect her to look, well, equally desperate. She was clinging to his each word like they gave life to her.

"You cannot possibly mean that, Jon," her voice was carrying all the contradictions to her words though. It rather seemed as if she hoped to gods that he meant them. "You agreed...we both agreed that this marriage was nothing more than a show. You...you talk as if you..."

"Have feelings for you? Yes, Sansa, I do. Is it not manifestly clear that I do? Are you really that blind?" Jon huffed in a breath, his voice rising despite himself.

"Well, I am not blind, Jon Targaryen. But I am very confused. You kiss me and dance with me, but then you yell at me on our wedding night. You hold me close during the night, but during the day you barely even touch me. Then this morning, I wake up to find you staring at me, but when I try to comfort you, you flinch away from me like I have the grey plague or something. So tell me, if it is so much that I am blind or that you paint a very blurry and disarrayed picture?"

"You make a compelling argument, but I...I didn't know. I wasn't sure if my advanced will be welcome, so I dared not make any. Like you said, we had agreed that we didn't want this marriage to be a real marriage. You never gave me the impression that you still didn't think me of your brother, that the idea of US didn't make you sick still. I didn't know."

Jon took her face in his other hand, stroking the side of her face, feeling her shiver at his touch. He had to admit, it was glorifying to be able to do this to her. That she wanted him too, at this moment, as much as he wanted her. Desire flooded his vein, but he kept his hands still, waiting for her answer.

"Well, now you do. Thinking I might lose you is what sickens me, Jon. Or that you might...not want me. Not being with you. Those are the things that sicken me; you do not. So now you know." Her voice dropped down to a whisper, and came out softer than a breath. Jon could feel her lean her face into his hand. She still did not move to touch him, her hands tightly knotted on her lap.

The plain bisque shift she was wearing was very sheer indeed, and very distracting. But another thing that Jon could not afford was distraction. The attraction between himself and Sansa was palpable at this point, there was nothing more he wanted than to kiss her like there was no tomorrow. But there would definitely be a tomorrow, Jon knew, and he was put back on this earth to make sure that tomorrow brought joy and bounty, not doom and suffering. He had to get his message through to Sansa, that he was here for her. That he believed in her goodness. That he had faith in her love. He had to make Sansa not just want him at this moment, in this bed, in the most basic way a woman wanted a man; but he had to make her want him forever. That was the only way he could ever hope to alter their future. It had to be.

And in the next moment, as much as Jon wanted to tear off that tease of a slip from her beautiful body and trace kisses down her throat, make her see how much he wanted her, he did not do it. Instead, he decided to show her how much he respected her. How much he wanted to stand by her all their life. How much he loved her, even though he was not sure that he did.

"Then we must vow from now onwards to trust each other. Lies, secrecy, betrayal...I think I have had my fill of all that. I had thought I would never trust a soul again, and soon realized that it was no way to live. Forevermore, love is the coin side of trust, one cannot exist without the other. I give you both with an open heart, Sansa. I give you all, and hope for nothing in return but the same. Love and trust. Trust me that your best interest is my best interest. Your people is my people. Wherever you go, I will follow. Whatever your sins, I will shoulder them. However heavy your burdens, I will bear them. You only need to trust me, that I will follow through." He drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to her temple.

Sansa finally put her hand on his chest, over his heart and Jon had to stifle a moan at the back of his throat. Her palm ignited a fire under his skin that spread like a wildfire throughout his body. He inhaled sharply, and almost missed as she said quietly,

"I do not deserve you, that much is clear to me now. I have been a fool, an egomaniac... I think I am broken, Jon. And none of your pretty words can fix me. Maybe you are better off without loving me..."

Jon drew back, appalled, "How can you say that?!"

Sansa put her fingers on his lips, shushing him softly, "Let me finish. I say I am broken because I too thought that I would never trust a soul ever again. I did not even believe in love anymore. But you...you changed all that. I have hope again. I have hope."

He kissed the tip of her fingers, and closed his eyes. He still had a long way to go about loving her and getting her to love him back, all the while winning the throne, stopping a white walker invasion, lock up Littlefinger and so forth. But he had taken a huge step on this quest for redemption, not his own, but Sansa's.

When he opened his eyes, he smiled at her with all the warmth he could muster. Yes, he was falling in love with her and yes, she was very troubled and confused. But she was not alone anymore, and he had finally been able to make her see that.


	12. Fight Another Day

They had marched all the way to the Moat Cailin with all of their bannermen. All of their army were in motion, and their numbers grew everyday as more and more Rivermen joined their cause. They had seen their weak Lord Paramount bow to the Lannisters in exchange for the pardon of his wife and his son, and realised their only hope lied with this Targaryen King in the North.

Sansa was taking swordfighting lessons with Brienne at Jon's behest; but she was terrible at it. She could not balance a longsword correctly, despite the strength building exercise she had been doing. So instead, Brienne determined that she should try the bastard sword. And she had been practising for a fortnight now; she understood the basics but still did not last five minutes against Brienne. But Sansa knew that Brienne was a knight and had spent her lifetime doing swordplay. She would get better with time, she earnestly hoped.

Sometimes Jon would pay a visit to their lessons, offering advice and criticism. He was a great fighter as well, Sansa realised. He was light on his feet, and his movements were so fluid that it seemed he danced, rather than flayed when he brandished the sword. Sansa was positive that she looked nowhere near as graceful as Jon with that idiot sword in her hand. Jon once gave her a lesson as well, in sword history. Imparting all the knowledge he had gathered from maester Luwin and maester Aemon about the great ancestral swords of Westeros. Sansa still remembered how his eyes glinted as he talked about Visenya Targaryen and her sword the Dark Sister, how it had been a bastard sword as well, built especially for a warrior woman, slender but deadly when thrusted correctly. His eyes glinted much the same way when he watched Sansa parry with Brienne, blocking the assaults with all she had. It was thrilling, Sansa had to admit, both the fighting and the naked hunger in Jon's eyes.

That morning, Sansa reached the corner where they Brienne usually held her lessons. She was dressed appropriately in a lightweight gown, with two thigh high slits that accommodated movement, with tight breeches underneath. Sturdy boots adorned her feet, and she had to admit she loved them for their protection against both the cold and the slips and falls. She was putting on her protective vest, when Jon came up to her and stilled her hands. Sansa's head shot up in surprise; despite everything Jon had declared that fateful morning, he had, never again, stood as close to her as he did now.

"There will be no need for that, my lady. Your new armour has arrived. I think it is time that you started training in actual steel breastplate and shoulder guards." Jon said happily, undoing the laces of her vest for her. Soldiers gawked as they passed by, at the rare interaction between their young king and queen. Jon was only undoing a vest over her dress, and yet her heart picked up its beat.

The lace was undone, so Jon stepped back and and Sansa found a box overflowing with shiny silver contraptions at his feet. She shrugged out of her leather vest, and bent down to inspect the contents.

"I never thought I, Sansa Stark, would utter these words - but I have been looking forward to this!" Sansa laughed out, the giddy happiness that Jon had brought with him seemed to be contagious. "My very first battle gear...I wish I could have a real sword too."

"Wait, is this Arya I have in front of me? What did you do to my Sansa?!" Jon said jesting, but all the mirth drained out of Sansa. Jon seemed to realise what he had just done as well, and fell quiet. Arya was a tricky subject in the Stark household, they did not want to forget her, or mourn her; they still held out a candle for her as Brienne had seen her alive and heading for Essos. But they missed her, and talking about her was still painful.

"I know she is alive, Sansa. Because otherwise, I would have been able to feel it. In my heart. I would have been able to feel it if my little sister did not walk the same earth as I, I am sure of it." Jon said solemnly.

Sansa held her armour in her hands, and pretended to be busy studying it. But inside, she felt hollow. Because unlike Jon, she did not think she would be able to tell if Arya died, or when she died. Sansa had never had a real connection with her younger sister, and as much as she wished that she had taken the time to know Arya, it was already too late. She was gone, and she would always have to live with this guilt. Tears burned ar the back of her eyes, but she held them back and took a shuddering breath.

It was all bright steel of blue undertone, lightweight, simple and elegant. It, of course, had the three-headed dragon of her new house embedded on the breastplate, but on the gauntlets was white Stark wolves roaring, their eyes red as blood. Jon caught Sansa stroking the wolf mane, and the warmth returned to his voice, "I thought it would add a nice touch. It feels weird though, doesn't it? I can order people around, get them to do anything for me! It's very strange."

"Well, it is your birthright to order people around, Jon, even if you cannot really reconcile with that fact. You would make a very unique king, because of what father did to you. You were brought up unlike any other king in the history has ever been brought up. You are not entitled, you do not care about luxury, you treat your people not as your property, but as your family. I think it is good that you find your new privileges strange. Makes you a better man." Sansa looked up, and the sun was right behind Jon's head, creating a halo around his face. He looked rather princely, at that moment, in his newly made black and red tunic, Longclaw slinging from his waist.

"They will, no doubt write ballads about this. The poor Jon Targaryen, tricked by his uncle, brought up as a despised bastard, rising to the throne with his half sister! We will be immortalised, Sans, we both will be." Jon said as he came down to hunch beside her, and took out rest of the parts of the armour. 

"Wager they will write about this armour too. It is quite spectacular; thank you, Jon," Sansa put her hand in Jon's outstretched one, and he helped her up.

"No, they will write songs about you in that armour," Jon poked her playfully on the shoulder, "Because you will be spectacular, once we put you in these. Wearing armour is no easy work, it is as much a part of your training as swordfighting. Let's begin..."

"Where is Brienne? Is she not coming?" Sansa remarked inquisitively. 

Jon replied without turning back, "Oh, she had an extra scout duty, so I thought I would bring you these, and take over your training for one day." He tried to keep his voice casual, but nervousness sneaked in. Sansa had a suspicion that this sudden scouting expedition was perhaps not all coincidence, but she only pursed her lips in a quick smile and went about doing as Jon instructed her to do.

***

It was a week now that she had been training in her armour, and Brienne would always stuck with another scouting mission, or envoy mission, or something other so Jon had become a regular tutor. Sansa knew Jon conjured all these obligations for Brienne on a daily basis so that he could take over her training. This behaviour of Jon mystified Sansa as the man was her husband, and could spend any amount of time in any manner with her if he wanted to. Why did he feel the need to contrive plots so they could spend time together? And no less, fighting each other?

She was sweating vehemently that morning, despite the winter air and her arms felt like lead stumps hanging from her side. Her curling hair was coming loose from her braid, and every breath pierced her lungs. But Jon was relentless in his quest for military perfection, and where Brienne was respectful and considerate with her corrections, Jon was merciless. They were taking a short break, and Jon was readjusting his gauntlets when Sansa said, "So what do you think of your aunt?"

Jon looked up, confused. "My aunt?"

"Yes, Daenerys Targaryen. She is supposedly very keen on ruling Westeros, been trying to gather an army for years now. She is about your age? Surely you have heard of her?"

"Yes, everyone has. I don't think anything of her, really. I am not completely sure if she is real or not."

"Well, even if she is real, there is no family resemblance," Sansa gestured with her sword at him, "Everyone says that she has silver hair and purple eyes, whereas you..."

Jon made a choking noise at that, startling Sansa. "Purple eyes? Where did you hear all this?"

Sansa paled at the question, but had no choice but to tell the truth. "From Petyr Baelish, of course. Who else has this sort of news? But word is that Tyrion Lannister has been made her hand and you must have some kind of..."

"You still confer with Littlefinger?" Jon was visibly upset, but not just at her conferring with Littlefinger but something else as well which she hadn't an inkling of.

"Why? Since when has that been made illegal? He has a place on your council, but I am not allowed to talk to him?" Sansa kept her voice calm and let sarcasm drip.

"But what about all that talk we had about trust? Why is he talking to you alone? Why can't he say these things in the council in front of everyone?" Jon threw his gauntlet on the ground and walked toward her.

"Well, he was going to say it to everyone in the afternoon. He only got a raven this morning, and he just stopped by before I came here to let me know. That is it. We are not hiding anything from you." Sansa said, thoroughly annoyed. Jon ran his hands exasperatedly through his dark curls, Sansa had come associate it with anxiety.

"Honestly, Jon. He had hoped that I would be able to discuss this with you at length, before war council, while we took lunch. I thought it would be good for you to be prepared." Sansa took his hands, which were also sweaty, but she did not mind.

"Well, I cannot order you around. You are my queen. But I do not like Petyr Baelish, especially around you, he looks at you like you are glass of water in the middle of the desert. Can I be present at these talks that you have from now on? Just send for me, and I will be there." Jon was still grumpy and shaken, but the colour had returned to his face.

Sansa smiled mischievously at him, and whispered, "So you mean you can spend time with me other than training me? And you wouldn't have to slump poor Brienne with extra work to achieve this end?"

Jon flushed as scarlet as the ruby breastplate which he stood wearing; but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, "I am neither admitting nor denying this. But I must say, you make an excellent student and I enjoy sparring with you." He put one hand on her back, drawing her closer to him.

"Oh, I think it is safe to say that your opinions are biased, my king. Do not hang me for this audacity!" Sansa threw her head back, laughing. "And if you are ashamed of being found alone with me, having tea or something, it is a smidge too late, seeing as how we are already married, you know." She pried her fingers from his as she locked her hands below his neck. She couldn't be sure who leaned first, but soon his mouth crashed upon hers, and she was wholly consumed in that kiss. The rest of the world faded to non-existence. Sansa forgot to breathe, forgot to blink, she was caught in this moment forever. But the spell broke all too soon as Jon drew back momentarily, and Sansa became suddenly aware that people all around them were staring, servant maids giggling and shushing each other. Jon did not look embarrassed, though, and went about putting his gauntlet back on.

Sansa spent rest of the morning sparring with Jon; she had gotten much better under Jon's tutelage. She parried and blocked attacks with ease, and the bastard sword was increasingly becoming an extension of her arm, the armour an extension of her skin. But dread and guilt built up a knot in her stomach, and she hardly looked into his eyes for the rest of the session. If Jon noticed, he did not make an issue of it.

Sansa's head was still spinning from the altercation. She could not bear to look at Jon, who looked slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling. For a split second there Sansa was afraid that he knew about her and Petyr, seeing how angry he got at his mention. He probably suspected something, but did not know the entirety of their relationship. Sansa had promised herself that she would stop meeting Littlefinger after that morning, when Jon had made a declaration of his love for her. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard anyone say, better than any ballad, any poetry, any song. She had meant to keep that promise; but she had failed. Now Jon looked at her like she was the most amazing thing on earth, and kissed her in front of everyone, no longer afraid to show the world his affections; and Sansa could not bear it. She wanted to melt into the snow, disperse in the air, take a bolt into her heart sooner than break the trust of this boy who had found it in his heart to love her.

But she would do it. Of course she would. She was the sort of person no one should love, she was poison. No matter what her reasons, she would always end up hurting the people she loved. And it was time she owned up to it.

Littlefinger was a dangerous adversary, and since she could not get rid of him yet, she had to keep pretending to be on his team. Could she tell Jon all about it, trust him like he had asked her to? Maybe in time, but surely not right now.

So she made a different promise, that she would never let Littlefinger touch her again. And she had not. Partly because he belonged with Jon, she could feel it. They did not completely understand each other, but they would get there someday. And partly because Jon had showed her how a woman should be caressed, and how it should make her feel. Petyr was none of that for her. Petyr was the man responsible for making half of Westeros think Sansa was a murderer. Sansa could not hope to outmaneuver him, not on her own. But for now she would do all that she had to do. Stay alive for another day, keep Jon safe from that snake another day; live to fight another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might come two weeks later because my finals are about to start. Wanted to give you another chapter, and all the JonSa enthusiasts a bit of hope to cling to. Enjoy!


	13. Drunken Truths and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a hopeless romantic and if that shows in this chapter, I am not sorry :3

Sansa was making her way towards Jon's tent, where he held meetings, Brienne of Tarth on her tow, casually chattering. At first, Brienne had seemed stuck up and drab to her. But after spending months under her protection, they had formed a sort of friendship. Brienne was telling her all about how she was puzzled at first about getting odd and redundant chores every day, but quickly realised that Jon did so to spend time with Sansa. Sansa was laughing heartily as she said, "Oh, he befuddles me, that man. But I asked him to stop tormenting you so, and just tell you that he would rather tutor me. We have nothing against you, you see, you were an excellent teacher and I cannot thank you enough for the excellent lessons you imparted on me. His royal highness simply enjoys training me."

"I understand, my l...your grace. And I am honoured to have had the opportunity to share with you what little I know of warfare. But I must say, I do see the appeal. You are formidable with that weapon in your hand, your grace, and King Jon must appreciate it too." Brienne declared in her always serious manner, so Sansa knew she meant it. Brienne always meant everything she said, in fact it was one of things that had made this woman so dear to Sansa. Sansa's chest tightened at the compliment, she had been dreaming of looking formidable and capable for a long time now.

"Also, Jon likes his women feisty, preferably armed with bow and arrows, but I reckon he is willing to settle for swords now." Tormund Giantsbane seemed to appear out of nowhere, and started strolling with them unceremoniously. "Has nobody told you yet, that it is rude to eavesdrop? Or is that too civilized for your wildling behind?" Brienne bristled at this interruption, and Sansa went red all over before recovering and murmured, "What do you mean, Giantsbane?" 

Tormund smirked at Brienne and promptly answered, "Oh, nothing my queen. Our lad here used to be pretty sweet on one of us Wildlings, Ygritte. She was a fine shot, that woman."

"Oh, of course. Ygritte, the proficient archer." Sansa said coolly, looking straight ahead. Brienne seemed to sense her discomfort, but Tormund was as crass as per usual, did not stop there -

"Mighty fine looking woman, too. Such pretty red h..." and it was at this point that Brienne smacked him on his head, and muttered curse words to shut him up. The rest of the way they walked in uncomfortable silence, Sansa's mood unreasonably ruined.

Soldiers bowed their heads when she passed them. Winter Queen, they had started to call her. Whether it was her ice diamond diadem, or her icy demeanor and the cold and calculative way Jon and she had so far mananged their campaign, she could not tell. There was no mercy for anyone that hindered them. There had been attempts on their lives, poisons slipped in her drinks to make her infertile, the usual warfare. And each of the conspirators had been found by the Crownsguard and killed. Sansa knew why she had been summoned. All was going well and Jon's army was poised to take Riverrun. It was basically theirs for the taking as there was little to no resistance from the riverlords. Walder Frey and his two insipid sons were killed by a mysterious 'faceless' assassin, the word on the kingsroad was. Wilder rumours spoke of a girl baking the two sons into a pie and feeding them to Old Frey before she slit her throat. But that was just old wives' tales, they all presumed. 

 

But the game took the wildest turn when they heard of Daenerys Targaryen coming with a fleet that included the unsullied, the dothraki, the Dorne and the Reach. Jon and the council had previously discussed Daenerys Targaryen at length, but this new improvement called for a sudden conference. She, her three dragons, and her army were days away from King's Landing. Either they had hid their progress with remarkable efficiency, or some inside force had contrived to keep Jon ignorant of these major war preparations, because they were only now learning of this. The Lannisters seemed to be caught off guard as well, they had only started retreating their armies two or three days ago; leaving vast areas of the riverlands for their taking.

It had made things that much easier for Jon and his allied force to take back the north and the riverrun, as most of the Lannister forces had been called back to King's Landing to protect their queen. They were wary of engaging in the northern rebellion lest they squander their forces before the bigger and more imminent threat.

***

"She is your kin. Write to her." Ser Davos told Jon. "Tell her you are her nephew, tell her about the marriage. She will do the honourable thing, I am sure of it. Reports claim her to fierce, aye, but also kind and honest."

"She is also said to have sworn vengeance against House Stark. What makes you think she will honour the second marriage of Rhaegar to a Stark, the affair that got most of her family killed and herself exiled?" Sansa countered. She and Baelish had discussed this in length before coming here, but they decided to test the waters for now.

"Nobody wants another dance of dragons. Westeros could not survive another, not at this fragile state. A truce must be pushed for." Lord Manderly quipped.

"She has dragons. Three of them." Jon said quietly, his gaze was on the fireplace. "Dragon-glass, Valyrian steel and dragon fire, the only things that can kill the others. Daenerys is the solution to all of our problems." He ended.

"But how will you convince her about the white walkers? And surely you see the threat to house Stark..." Sansa began, but Jon's hand went up and stopped her in her tracks.

"I am a Targaryen and therefore her last living family. However I was begot, it does not change the fact that I am her brother's son. She is no threat to me, or those I ally myself with. All of you," Jon looked at her through his long lashes, a strange look on his face. Sansa felt that there was more to Jon's eagerness to correspond with this upstart Targaryen than the comparative advantages she brought to the table; yet from what she had heard of Jon's aunt, she seemed to be quite the conqueror and tyrannical, merciless but passionate about her cause. She really could not gauge how the dragon queen will react to Jon, or if she would be willing to give up her claim to the throne. But Sansa had to agree that having Daenerys by their side would actually give them a fighting chance against the Others, so she did not press the matter any farther.

She had been so preoccupied with who gets to rule Westeros, that she had forgotten that Westeros was perched on the precipice, facing annihilation at the hand of those otherworldly creature.

"Tyrion Lannister is with her. If he thinks she is who she claims to be, then she probably is," Sansa added gingerly.

"The imp? Pray tell why do you place such high esteem on his judgement?" Manderly scoffed.

"Because Lord Tyrion is one of the most intelligent men I have ever met. And he is extremely well read. His mind as sharp as his tongue is quick. With him by her side, the dragon queen will have no trouble navigating through Westeros." Sansa declared defiantly.

"I need to make a truce, right now. I must write to her about the Others. And if an agreement can be reached, then we will possibly have automatically made peace with the Dorne and at least the House Tyrell; two crows in one stone."

"If that's what you think right, then the Wildlings will make truce with this dragon woman as well," Tormun grumbled.

Jon looked at the other for approval, and they all murmured their agreement. At last, Jon's eyes found Sansa's, and it held many questions, not just what she advised to do.

"I still maintain that we do not know of her motives, we do not her modus operandi, and that she hates my maiden house." Sansa answered his silent inquisition, and Ser Davos tried to contradict her indignantly, "Oh, yes, Lord Hand, she does." She again turned towards Jon and continued, "But she is technically my kin too, and so I think it is worth at least conversing with her. Peace is always preferred to war." Sansa concluded, and the matter was settled. Soon everybody filed out of the tent, leaving Sansa and Jon stand facing each other, silently.

A desk and chair stood in the middle, an unused feather bed at the far corner, and some armchairs and a tea table at their corner.

Sansa could sense that something was wrong with Jon. From spending so much time training, and then every single day at tea, and every single night in her tent, the ice was broken between them. They could talk freely, and Jon was still somewhat sparse in his affections, but Sansa could feel sparks flying between the two of them at every accidental touch and brush and glance.

But today Jon was sullen and his eyes were cool gray like the stormclouds that ushered blizzards. Sansa could not discern what she could have done to make him so angry and distant. Also, a pang filled her stomach, she was so used to Jon smiling at her that she could not take this silent scorn.

Terror clawed at her chest suddenly...did he know? About Baelish? About everything? Surely...

"Will you keep me join me for dinner today, my Sansa? I mean, my queen. Sansa. Here in the tent, just the two of us." he cleared his throat loudly, embarrassment washing over the tightness of his eyes, painting them a softer dove grey.

Sansa could not help a small smile before saying, "I would be delighted to, Jon."

***

Jon took a big swig of his ale, he was deep into his cup this night. Sansa could not tell how many cups of wine she had guzzled; after her wedding night, Sansa had not gotten drunk even once. But Jon's unusually quiet temperament made her anxious and twisted her insides into a jumbled knot. The wine helped alleviate some of the uneasiness, and so she lost track. Now her head felt very light, and her thoughts incoherent. Suddenly Jon started, "The dragon queen's coming...all of you see it as a threat. But it makes me happy beyond reason. It's...it's as if I have suddenly gained a family for the one that I lost."

"You do have a family in me, Jon," Sanas said quietly, taming down the thousand words that were swirling inside her mind. "Yes. Sansa, my dearest wife," Jon said sarcastically. It shocked Sansa to see Jon come undone like that, even at her drunken state. "I did not mean it like that, however. Daenerys is apparently my age, so it might be like having a sister again. I do miss..." before Jon could finish, Sansa injected, "Arya."

They were both quiet for a minute, before Sansa said demurely, "You don't even try to hide it, do you? That you would much rather it was Arya who survived, and not me." For some reason, it really upset her. A tiny but conscious voice was in her ear, warning her that she was making a big issue out of basically nothing, but she paid no heed. She could say what she thought too, like Brienne.

"Do not say that, Sansa. Don't you dare make me feel like I mistreated you. I am not the one plotting behind her brother's back with a weasel of a man." Jon bitterly spat at her.

If Sansa was shocked at this revelation, that Jon knew, she didn't let it show on her face. "Husband. Thought you made it clear that you wanted to be my husband, for real? Either way, you are not my brother, cousin. You were never my brother."

"When did you...did you become like this? Your heart has become so cold, you will give the Others a run for their gold." Jon's words came out all slurred. "But you are blind and a fool if you for one second think Littlefinger cares for what happens to you; that man only cares for himself, and there is no limit he will not cross if it inches him closer to his goals."

"So you call me a mindless puppet, a minion of Petyr Baelish but somehow I am heartless and condescending? And where did you even hear this? That I am plotting with him? Just because I..."

"Are you seriously going to try denying it? And what kind of fool do you take me for? I am one of the most powerful people in Westeros, do you think I have any shortage of spies and sources?"

"How much do you know? Because yes, I did plot with him at the beginning, I was angry because they all chose you to be Robb's successor and credited you for avenging Winterfell, and he seemed to have my interest mingled with his. So I did, listen to him. I did not know at the time! Did not know you. We were never close, I thought you resented me."

"I know enough. I know that you planned our marriage with him, and to think that I had thought this was a wonderful miracle that you and I were somehow bound in the most sacred bond there is, gods, Sansa...you don't know how it has broken me into pieces!"

"Please Jon, believe me, I...I have had a change of heart since. That morning, when you were so shaken up, and then said those beautiful words to me, I vowed to never listen to Petyr again. I hate myself, have hated myself so much ever since; there is nothing you can call me that I have not called myself...traitor, vicious liar, who..."

Jon abruptly stood up and exasperatedly ran his hand through his hair, "No, stop! Do not say that, just don't."

"Why not? They are true." Sansa's vision blurred as tears pooled in her eyes.

Jon cocked an eyebrow at her choice of words, and sighed, "And to go back to something you just said, I do not think you are mindless. I take your counsel very seriously, when I know they are your opinions, not whatever poison Baelish poured into your ears. And it is because of this trust that you need to stop plotting with Baelish to manipulate me. First of all, Littlefinger is cunning and I don't think I myself could hold out against him. I am not condescending you, I am warning you. Secondly, you DON'T HAVE TO. You do not need that man anymore to keep your interest. And you do not have to manipulate me, you only need to talk to me. You are my wife and my cousin, I will do anything you ask of me as long as it does no harm to our realm, and our people."

"This is exactly the problem, Jon. You don't understand that which may be good for the realm, may not always be good for the crown!" Her tears vanished as rage took over.

"All I can hear is Baelish talking. You say I treat you like a mindless doll? That old pervert is manipulating you for his own gain!"

At that Sansa fell silent. She knew he was right, about every single thing. Petyr Baelish had yet again tricked her into an impossible position, and caused her hurt, so much hurt. Sansa looked at Jon, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. He wouldn't even look at her. She could spot anger, sadness, distrust, pity...so much pity in his face. Failing to get him to look at her, Sansa took a deep breath. This conversation was getting out of hand. "I have not forgotten how he left me at the mercy of Ramsay Bolton. But even you cannot deny that he was instrumental in restoring the Stark seat in Winterfell." Sansa said quietly, despite all of her instinct prodding her to get on her knees and beg Jon to forgive her for all that she had done, and to swear on her own blood that she would never again talk to that vicious man again. She ignored that gut wrenching sensation, and whispered, "We need him on our side. And I do not presume he would be willing to cooperate with anyone but me; so I kept up the ruse. I can only ask you to forgive me, and then believe me."

"If you are playing him, why hide it from me? Why didn't you let me in on it? Or was your bastard half-brother not worthy of knowing about your masterplan?" Jon was seething too, all the wine in his blood making him bold and unhinged.

"You still have not forgiven me in your heart for how I treated you back then, have you? You are petty and childish Jon, you still hold on to old school beliefs about honour and chivalry and bravery. That is what I love the most about you, that after all that has happened to you, you are still our father's son. But I am wicked, and that is exactly why I did not tell you about Baelish. And this is why I tried to play you." Sansa suddenly realised that she was crying, her high cheekbones all wet and a flood of tears was unleased.

If Jon even noticed that she was crying, he did not appear to care overmuch. He had completely withdrawn from her, his face turned away, his back to her. Sansa could see how tense his shoulders were, like he was ready to break into a fight any minute. Maybe that's what he expected from Sansa, that she would just stab him in the back like his brothers on the wall. Actually stab him, not the betrayal she had already dealt him.

"I DO NOT hold grudges, I do not know why I said that earlier. But you plotting with Petyr has hurt me so, and if I know about it then other people must too. Did you even stop to think how this undermines my rule? Or is that what you really want, to make your uncle your king?" There was more venom in his words than in a full grown cobra. Sansa recoiled at his suggestions. This is, of course, what Petyr Baelish wanted. And she had yet to find a way to get rid of Petyr somewhere down the road. The more Jon talked, Sansa started to feel like she had taken on much more than she was prepared for. The way Jon seemed, she was afraid any moment guards will come into the tent and arrest her, then Jon would have their marriage annulled since it was not even consummated yet, and it was just like the old times again.

She would never be happy. She would never get anything but pain and humiliation. She wished Joffrey had just killed her all those years ago.

"I...I am sorry, Jon. What else can I say? I was stupid, and cruel. I was greedy. For recognition, for approval. I did not realise that I had Bran and that I had you, I had Brienne. All these people who loved me and thought the world of me. But I let the one thing I did not have, affect how I felt about the treasure that I did possess. Can you forgive me, or is this the end?" Sansa's eyes were dry, but her voice threatened to give in any moment.

Jon stayed stone silent, lost in contemplation; Sansa could not see his reaction, so she pressed, unable to bear the silence, "I hate Petyr for a great many things. And he is not as cunning as you may think; he underestimated you so. But there is one thing Petyr did for me that I will be forever be grateful for." Sansa did not even know what she was saying at this point, or why she was saying it. In her heart, a terrible darkness grew. She had burnt the bridge between her and Jon, and now she was suffocating in the thick black smoke that enveloped her very soul. There was probably no going back, but she would say her piece even if for the sake of getting it off her chest.

"I am grateful that he helped me trick you into marrying me. Or perhaps that would have happened eventually, truth has a way of getting out. But nonetheless, it brought me something I did not even know I wanted; you. I got to know you like I had never known before. I got to hold you tight in my arms, say wedding vows to a man who meant his, kiss you and have you kiss me back. I got to love you, I still love you, I will always love you. So please tell me if we can go back to where we were yesterday, or if I have ruined everything." Sansa's eyes pooled again, but she did not let them fall. 

Jon slowly turned back, and this time it was Sansa who could not hold his gaze. He eyes burned into her, scorching her soul, testing her mettle. Disbelief flooded his face, but his dark eyes seemed even darker. He choked out a few words, but Sansa's ear could not catch them. Impatiently she said once again, "Can you forgive me, Jon? I will do anything you ask of me, anything to earn your..." Sansa stammered as she almost said 'love', but resumed, "your trust back."

Sansa would look anywhere but at Jon, but she could feel his eyes on her. So she fixed her gaze on the fire behind Jon's silhouette, and could make out Jon with her peripherals. Jon again said something in his throaty voice, but Sansa could hear clearly, "You have ruined everything."

Sansa's shoulders slumped, she held hope even until this moment, and that somehow held her up. Made her back straight, chin up. With that support gone, she could feel herself crumbling in on her, her knees turned into marmalade.

"So what now, you will imprison me? Punish me for all that I have done? Will there be a trial? You need Petyr, Jon...punish me all you want but you cannot afford to lose Vale."

"Huh." Jon scoffed, pressing his lips into a sarcastic smile. "I will lose Vale if I punish you, Robyn Arryn will go berserk. Bran will go berserk. Then his men will leave me. Everyone will leave me...but that's beside the point! I don't want to punish you. I don't know if I can forgive you, and I know I should carry out some kind of a verdict on you, as I would do to anyone who conspired against me. That would have been fair, but where you are concerned, my judgement has been weak forevermore. That is what love does to you, I suppose." Jon grumbled exasperatedly.

Sansa's breath caught even amid all this threat and heartbreak at his careless confession. Did he realise what he had just said? 

"You are right, we need Petyr. We only need him to show our goodwill to Robyn, but only on paper and such. We will put on a good show. I don't want him for information or anything; he either let us be blindsided about the Dragon force, or he did not know himself. He did not tell you either, did he?" Jon closed his eyes and sighed at Sansa. Sansa hastily stuttered a no, with an accompanying shrug.

"Anyway, so I will keep him around as long as I have to, intercept his letters, the usual. But you...you are to be placed under guard all the time, and never, and I mean never, meet with Petyr again. Not alone. You shall exchange pleasantries when we meet at some gathering or council to keep up the ruse, but you will in no way contact him again. By any means. The queensguard you have already chosen, helmed by Brienne, they will follow you everywhere you go, at all times, and report back to me. If you violate any of my terms, I will know. And your punishment will be carried out on your guards, instead of you."

Sansa's head whipped to the right, and she shouted indignantly, "WHAT?! You cannot possibly..."

But Jon kept his calm, and he even seemed sober now. His solemn face was a stark reminder that he did not enjoy this arrangement, but he thought it necessary. "Yes I can," he interjected, "And I will. You picked them out yourself, which means you must have some sort of affinity towards them. I will brief them tomorrow about everything, and the new terms of the protection they are to provide you from now on. I take no pleasure in this, threatening you, or the people you like, but that's what YOU have made me do. You tied my hands. I can't punish you, for my own reasons and for political reasons. You...have made me into a monster." His lips were pressed into a line, his jaws tight, his eyes purposeful. He was truly formidable at this moment.

"Why would they tell on me, if you only punish them for it?" That was the only thing Sansa could think of. 

"Because Brienne. Her sense of honour will compel her, and she sweared fealty to me. I am hoping that they would rather prevent you from doing anything that violates my order so they never have to face that choice at all, to lie to me or to get punishment. Out of self preservation. And I will make sure that it's clear to them that I will eventually find out if they lie. And when I do, it will be worse for them."

"But surely if you had someone spying on Littlefinger you would be able to counter any strike he plans against you that much better? I will not hide anything from you, I can be useful...this can be instrumental to thwarting any assault he launches at you! And he won't be happy if I stop colluding with him, he will take his revenge on me, and then on you!

"Do you even hear yourself, Sansa? No. I cannot risk you like this, and I don't trust you enough either. I don't trust you with that man; he has a hold on you unlike any I have ever seen. My decision stands. And I will behead him before he exacts any sort of revenge or retaliation against me. And believe me, I will see it coming. I don't need you to be my spy. I don't need you for anything." Jon spat the words at her, and Sansa flinched inwardly. He did not trust her. He did not need her. Now or never.

Sansa felt crestfallen. This was so unlike Jon. It was surreal. She wanted to scream a billion things at him, but could not utter a single thing. She could only stare back and take in the tortured frame of Jon, and finally their eyes met.

They locked, and suddenly all else seemed to ebb and fade into a swirly snowfall, and time seemed to slow down. Sansa idly wondered if she had the same effect on Jon, if she could make his world stop.

But she had ruined everything. Perhaps when the war ends, and Jon no longer needs her and the alliances that come through her, he would dispense her. He had said he loved her, but she had broken his heart beyond repair. Probably Jon did love her, but could not stand her anymore. She would feel the same, if the roles were reversed.

When she came out of her reverie, she discovered that the distance between them had disappeared and Jon stood toe to toe with her, their noses almost touching.

Jon whispered and his warm breath washed all over her, and suddenly Sansa craved for the taste of him, "This is your last chance, Sansa. The very last one. Maybe in time..." and Sansa interrupted his words with a kiss, being unable to hold back. It was quick and chaste, but she poured as much soul into it as she could. Jon looked bewildered, but he held his ground, and he did not flinch away. "In time you can forgive me?" Sansa finished the sentence when he said nothing. "You will, Jon. I will make sure that you do. But I need to know something first. Even after all of this, are you in love with me?"

This time Jon did step away, and Sansa could tell his pulse quickened by the throbbing on his neck. He looked torn for a moment, a ghost of a memeory darkened his porcelain, almost too pretty featured. But soon he squared his shoulders and spoke.

His voice was clear as bells as he proclaimed, "You might be the death of me, but yes. I am in love with you. Against my better judgement, against my instinct. But if you muck this up, I swear by the gods, all of the love in this whole world will not be able to hinder me from coming after you."

Despite herself, Sansa's face broke into a smile. "I am in love with you too, Jon."


	14. Wrath Of Gods

Sansa stood there in the thick of it; the mud, the sweat, the metal stench of spilled blood and the sickening tear of flesh. So this is what battle was like, she pondered almost cathartically. Brienne was whirling about her, never letting the enemy get anywhere near to her. There were only two other Crownsguard with them, engaged in battle; the rest were with Jon, wherever he was.

Sansa had her sword drawn as well, not the practice sword. A real sword, hand and a half, salvaged from another battle the Northern army had won. They could not determine which house it had belonged to, but it fit Sansa well and she asked no more questions. But it never came to her using it on this fateful day, Brienne did a spectacular job of dispatching the foe. Sansa was wearing a flowing gown, and no armour. If she had to engage in battle, the odds were completely against her.

"Your grace, we cannot linger here. There may be more of them coming." Brienne said as she slit the throat of the last of them. They had fell upon them quite literally out of thin air, overwhelming their carriage in a matter of minutes. They slayed their horses, and soon began their assault. Brienne had tried to make a run for it through the forest, but they were surrounded. The nearby carriages were all subdued and immersed in battle as well.

"And go where? Where did they even come from? Where will we go? All of our horses are down." Sansa said, frowning.

"The king's entourage was not that far ahead of us," a soldier from the cargo that was following behind them spoke up. "We should go and defend our king, now the queen is secured."

"Yes, this was no coincidence, nor was this a robbery. These were trained, armed and informed men, who came to take down the royals." Another soldier grumbled.

The last couple weeks had been tough for the Northerns. Lannisters had pulled their forces out, and war ensued between Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen, but the Southrons had not forgotten about Jon. Small contingents of Lannister sympathisers still popped up all over Riverlands, attacking scouting parties, reconnaissance teams, messengers. Jon and his advisors had dispatched covert operations to find out these people, and neutralise the threat. He even had to go to a few battles himself when some riverlords rose up against him and raised their arms. Those battles were easily won, but an attack on the royal camps seemed imminent, as spies had reported. So it was decided that Jon, Sansa and their crownsguard would move to a secure location, unknown to anyone but the council. They were to remain there until Riverrun was secured for their lodging.

This journey was shrouded in utmost secrecy, and they were not expecting heavy assault. They were travelling light, in equal parts to not draw any attention and to make haste.

"Waiting here is as dangerous as stalking, I suppose," Sansa finally decided, "But Brienne and I will follow you at a distance. If there is danger, you will signal us. Now go, Jon probably needs you." She dispatched them, and took pursuit with her sword still drawn.

They were walking in silence, ears perked for any warning sounds, when Brienne suddenly spoke, "May I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course. You can ask me anything." Sansa said, her voice shaking slightly. At the moment of action, her mind had gone numb and all her training and learning had kicked in. She swerved, and hunched and ran without even being told. But now, the adrenaline had worn off and her emotions were stripped bare. They were in the middle of nowhere, with minimal weapons and no transportation, and Jon was not with her. She did not even know if he was alive, although if they had managed to survive the ambush, Jon must have had as well. The back of her spine still tingled, a fear clawing upwards to her mind, a sense that she was being followed.

Sansa bunched the front of her winter coat closer together to ward off the cold, but it was not the northern wind that made her shiver. "Go on, then. Say it," Sansa said to just be rid of the eery silence.

"It is perhaps...it is just that...oh damn it. I should probably stay quiet. But there are rumours of dissent between you and King Jon. And there was, of course, the odd set of orders that we received. It is as if the king imprisoned you. What in seven hells is going on?" Brienne slowed down ever so slightly so that Sansa could match her pace and look on her as they talked.

Sansa looked ahead and spelled dryly, "You are sworn to secrecy, and I trust you with my life, yet I cannot tell you. For I am ashamed. I have ruined everything, and now the gods are angry with me. They are punishing me." Sansa wobbled on her feet as loose pebbles gave way under her feet.

Brienne took her arm to steady her, and also in a protective, motherly gesture. "I apologize for overstepping, your grace. If you do not wish to talk about it, then you shan't have to. Although, I do not like this. You are our queen, you should not be followed everywhere unless you want to." She was frowning, and Sansa could see her annoyance at Jon for the orders.

Jon had been cold and absent, things had gone back to the way they were before, perhaps even worse. Jon only talked to her during the council meetings, and only made small talks during their meals. Sansa mostly slept alone in her tent, although some nights Jon would come by and sit by her bed when he thought she was asleep. He wouldn't even look at her, he was that disgusted by the sight. But Sansa knew that he also loved her; it was just impossible for him to like her. All thanks to her. But that day, before he had left for battle, Sansa had steeled her mind and went to him to say goodbye. They lived every single day at mortal peril, but still every time Jon left for war he took a part of her heart with him.

Jon had looked surprised, but not hostile. He was sharpening Longclaw with a whetstone, and a pain drove through Sansa's mind. He looked just like her father, with his greatsword Ice, that he used to religiously groom. Which he loved almost as much as he had loved her. They sat there in silence until the time had come for Jon to go and before he left, Jon had leaned down to kiss Sansa on the temple. It was brief, like sunshine in winter; but dazzling enough to catch her breath.

Sansa sighed at the memory, and assured Brienne - 

"Oh no, Brienne. Don't blame Jon. He has been kind to me, far kinder than any man has been before." Sansa huddled with her protector and her warden at the same time.

"As you say, my queen," Brienne relented, though thoroughly unconvinced.

A loud cry tore through the team ahead of them, and the unmistakable clamour of swords clashing against each other.

Brienne promptly picked up Sansa and dived steadfast into the bushes beside the murky road. They tumbled into the deep cover of unknown shrubbery and thick trunks of evergreens. The hilt of Sansa's sword slammed into her chest as they hit the ground, and Sansa had to bite the back of her hand to stifle a scream. Brienne encased Sansa in a bear hug to brace her from the fall, and largely succeeded, injuring herself in the process. A knife came unsheathed from its scabbard and plunged into her midsection, and this time Brienne had to stifle a scream.

They were afraid to even breathe as they could hear footsteps coming their way, up on the road they had just exited. As they got nearer, almost over their heads, Sansa could hear on of them loudly wondering where the queen was, the queen they were ordered to find. And the other savagely declared what they would do to her when they found her. They had faint Southern accents, very clearly the enemy.

Sansa's eyes widened in surprise; they were so very sure that Sansa was in that carriage, despite none of them bearing any identifiable marks. As if they KNEW it. "Yes, I am shocked too," Brienne whispered, catching the look on her face, putting two and two together, "We have been betrayed, somebody tipped them off. Someone from our camp."

"I have a candidate in my mind..." Sansa muttered sardonically. Had it come to this, then? Petyr Baelish was imaginably very cross with Jon because he would not let Sansa meet him, or that he had him watched at all times as well. But would he really go this far, sell them to the enemy? But then again, Sansa had let him know that her allegiance had shifted; Petyr had no other option than to go licking Lannister boots again.

Sansa looked over to Brienne, only to find her knight doubled over, a bloody hand splayed over her side. "Brienne! You are bleeding..." Sansa blurted out in horror, no longer whispering since the men who were looking for them had given up and gone back to join the fight. Sansa's army were giving them a run for their gold, it seemed. Sansa was about to send Brienne to go help them, before she saw the state Brienne was in. She was losing a lot of blood, the knife must have hit a major organ of some kind, and her face was losing colour fast, her eyes drooping. "Oh, it's nothing milady. But we should stay here, in any case, until it is safe for us to move. They might intend to capture you, take you hostage..."

"I'd sooner die than become a Lannister hostage again; and we need to get you some medical attention, Brienne. At this rate you won't last an hour!" Sansa took her face in her hands, as she hovered above her, "Tell me, what can I do?"

Brienne attempted to talk but instead coughed and blood spattered all over her armour. Sansa quickly grabbed her and laid her head on her lap, shushing her as she went, "Don't talk. Just try to relax, and just don't exert yourself. I need to stop the bleeding...okay...compress, I need to put pressure on the wound..." she mumbled to herself to keep the panic at bay, and torn a huge piece from her gown to shove it on the cut after pulling the knife out as gently as she could.

It hardly made any difference, and Sansa watched with a detached sense of dread as the blue linen of her gown turned red with Brienne's blood in a matter of minutes. As usual, she could not do anything to help. She never could, and now she would just sit by and watch on as she lost another...

A faint rustling alerted Sansa, and she picked up her sword and pointed it at the source of the sound. "This is it, Sansa," she said to herself, "Put up a good fight. Like Jon taught you to. Protect Brienne. And fall on your own sword if it comes to that; no more games."

She took a steadying breath, and stood up to face her destiny on her own terms.


	15. The Raven That Refused To Sing

Jon was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to think the woods would provide cover. They were overwhelmed in battle, and although Jon hated to desert his men, he could also realise that these men were after him. And his men could hold their own in battle, they were the very best; without their king, however, they would be forever lost. The Northern revolution crushed in its infancy.

Jon had gestured two of his crownsguard to follow him and darted towards the forest. He hoped no one would take notice, but knew that this was just wishful thinking. Soon, sprinting footsteps behind them alerted him that they were being pursued. 

An arrow whistled past him, missing him by an arm'aaaaas length and lodged itself into a tree. Soon arrows were raining upon them, and Jon had to start zigzaging left and right to dodge them. Jon cursed out loud, but it was drowned by the howl of the Cerwyn boy, who had joined the crownsguard only days ago, as an arrow pierced his upper thigh. He went down; but Jon kept moving. He was trying to outrun them and take cover. His other protector trailed him a few steps back, covering his back. Jon looked over his back, and their stalkers left Cerwyn alone, and pursued them. The man wouldn't be able to walk, much less run, so he was better left there.

They ran for what felt like hours, but probably wasn't and suddenly the arrows stopped coming. They were still being pursued, but this gave Jon and young lord Ravenheart some breathing room. Jon was skirting a clearing, drizzled with snow, when he saw one of the men who had attacked them, clad in black and green clothes, coming toward him. He had outrun them, quite ironically, and stood with his bow drawn. An arrow was knocked, but Jon quickly noticed that this was his last. He let the arrow loose, but Ravenheart shoved him out of the way and got hit around his shoulder. He collapsed to the ground with a cry, clutching his arm. 

The archer dropped his bow, and unsheathed two short swords. Jon crouched at his fallen comrade's side, his sword hand was completely disabled for the time being. Jon was on his own. Jon entered the clearing and the archer-turned-swordsman was upon him in a matter of seconds.

Jon was easily the better fighter, but the man mostly parried his blows and employed defensive maneuvers. Jon realised that he was only keeping him busy, focused; but it was too little too late. He sensed someone perched behind him, and felt steel enter his back, a sensation more familiar to him than any other.

A billion things went through his mind in an instant, foremost of them being the revelation that he had been warned of this. This was the clearing from his premonition, and this was the knife to his back which he had foreseen. But where was Petyr? And Sansa, the person behind him could not be Sansa, could it? She was on another carriage, scores behind his own; she was with Brienne and two others with explicit orders to never let her out of their sight.

Jon tried to twist his body, to get away from his assailant and to get a look at their face, but his former adversary was now advancing on him. The person behind him held him steady by his shoulder, and the hand was unmistakably a man's. His sword ready at his hand, and a crooked grin on his face as he was about to finish his job. Suddenly his grin vanished, his eyes widened and focused on something behind Jon. He gave a loud cry, a warning cry to his partner. Two things happened at once - the grip on the knife at his back and on his shoulder loosened, granting him the freedom of movement to drive his sword through the heart of the man in front of him. A fleeting moment of distraction gave a window wide enough for a skilled swordsman like Jon to finish him off.

But the exertion drove the knife deeper into his back, tearing through flesh and sinew. Pain blacked out Jon out of his senses as the adrenaline rush wore off, and he collapsed. All he wanted was to close his eyes, and drift into oblivion which held relief. But soft arms came around him before he could hit the ground and cushioned his fall. Lavender and roses invaded his nostrils, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was that urged him to stay awake, to stay with her.

"Jon, Jon! Look at me, open your eyes, Jon. We took care of them, we won. Please don't leave me now, Jon!" She was jostling him in a way she probably thought was gentle, but it was far from it. It helped Jon snap out of his stupor, though. And he fluttered open his eyes. 

Even with her windswept hair, reddened cheeks from running, sweat crowning her temple like dewdrops on fresh grass in the morning, Sansa looked absolutely stunning. However, the worry that creased her forehead, and the anguish that tightened her lips were not beautiful. Those made Jon angry, at the enemy, at himself. He raised his hand to her temple, trying to smooth out the worry lines, but could only reach her cheek. He rested them there, and smiled, "I am not going anywhere, Sansa. I can barely walk." He found himself gasping for air, and said no more. He kept his eyes on Sansa, although she was fading away.

Soon a handful of other soldier, northern soldiers were gathered around them. They were putting a bandage on Jon's wound, using salves to stop the bleeding and numb the pain. A stretcher was promptly procured, and he was being taken to some safe haven. All of this was a haze as he kept blacking out, dropping in and out of consciousness as people hurried about all around him. Sansa's presence was a constant one through the hours, or maybe days as he toiled in various locations. Her hand was always soothing him, her voice burning away the pain.

"Can you not do anything? Healing people is what you do! Why can't you cure a simple knife wound? It did not even go that deep, I pulled it out myself!" Jon heard Sansa yell in between his fits, and again he had heard, "Call for Davos, call for all of the council, we need to reconvene. If something happens to Jon..." and her voice broke before she could get to the end. But Jon couldn't get up and console her, he felt bone tired and embracing the darkness felt easier and more comforting.

So he did. He gave himself up to the darkness, and hoped this time the Stranger will actually take him, instead of spitting him back out to this realm. He felt guilty and shamed to even think in this way, but he could not help it. The burning rivulets of pain that shot out from his spine and burned through his fingertips made it really hard to wish otherwise, to fight for this world, to fight for a country and a woman who had never given him anything but pain and betrayal.

In the darkness, there was no pain. There was no sensation at all, he simply...was not. There were blobs of starlight surrounding him now, although when he looked down he could see nothing of his own body. When he tried to touch his face, he found out he could not feel his arms at all. He looked up, and saw a man standing with his back to him. He was the source of the tiny starbursts, and Jon drifted towards him, hoping to meet the Stranger and walk to the other side with him. But when the man turned, Jon noted that he had charcoal black wings like a raven.

And also that the man was Bran, or at least he had the face of his younger brother...cousin. Bran smiled at him, and said, "Brother, I have been waiting for you."

"Are you...really Bran? Just Bran? I am not dying?" Jon thought, since he could not talk through his non-existent mouth.

"Not today, my king, not if I can do something about it." Bran grinned at him.

"But I cannot go on, it's too much pain." Jon found himself thinking.

"The pain will recede, I promise you. You have to muster the courage to endure it a bit longer; Ser Davos comes with a friend, he will know what to do." Bran said reassuringly.

"This is not a simple knife wound, is it? I have been out for days, I feel. I am numb and cold at times, and other times the pain tears through my veins. What was on that knife?" Jon's mind had started to clear up the instant he had come close to Bran. Days of blurry memories and sluggish thoughts finally took shape.

"Snake poison, I'm afraid. Enhanced by alchemy. But you will likely be cured." Bran seemed sympathetic.

"Likely? You cannot be sure?" Jon mused suspiciously.

"Jon, I have told you before. There are many courses for the universe to take. Every single action, no matter how insignificant, can alter the reality. Every being, no matter how minuscule, may wield the sword of destiny." Bran flexed his wings impatiently.

"Altering the future... I think I did it. I had foreseen the events of the clearing, but instead of Sansa, it was some Lannister soldier who stabbed me in the back." Jon could barely contain his excitement.

"You had foreseen Sansa would kill you? Sometimes, visions can be misleading. Maybe you had foreseen Sansa there, and mistaken her to be the assailant. She saved you, I think." Bran said, frowning.

"Petyr Baelish was there too, in my premonition. But I don't think he was there, in reality." Jon's excitement subsided; he had been wary of Sansa for no reason?

Bran bit his lower lip, as if deep in thought. "That could have been a symbolism. The Lord of Fire loves to confer through metaphors. This whole ambush must have been orchestrated by Lord Baelish, and your vision likely just foreshadowed that." He was speaking more to himself, than to Jon.

"So tell me, Jon; you think Sansa will betray you? Because she is in league with Baelish?" Bran suddenly focused his eyes on him, and Jon startled to see that they were unusually cold. And stern.

"After that dream, and some revelations, I contemplated the possibility. And took precautions." Jon was suddenly scared of this unreality, which had seemed welcoming thus far, but suddenly felt cold and clammy and ancient.

"Very pragmatic. But I sincerely hope you have not mistreated my sister on the basis of a very questionable premonition." Bran said directly into his mind, his lips unmoving.

"That old pervert would turn her against me! And I have not mistreated..." Jon blurted out before getting interrupted -

"Yes, he could... or, she could give you valuable information. For one thing, you may have known about this attack if you had let Sansa spy on your behalf; saved lives, you could have." Bran was still talking into his mind, but his lips crooked into a grin.

Jon's heart felt like it was being filled with lead; people had died? Could he have trusted Sansa with Littlefinger? He had debated this over and over with himself, but always came to the same decision.

He did not want him pawing all over her. He did not want his filthy mouth on hers. He did not even want that possibility to even exist; Sansa could take care of herself, but he didn't want Sansa in that position to begin with. 

"I won't let her near him, for her own sake as much as mine. And how did Sansa get there? That clearing was deep into the woods, not somewhere you can stumble upon happenstance." Jon retorted angrily.

Bran's grin widened, and this time he spoke out loud, "Some tales you must learn from mortals, Jon, or they might start wondering where you get your insight from. They are not ready yet, to hear the Truth. You must go back, and find out all that has transpired since you fell."

Suddenly Jon found himself crouching in front of Bran, who was actually levitating a few feet above him. The cold needle pain had returned, and the starbursts were multiplying, flushing out Bran from his view.

"Jon, remember. If you come faced with an emerald beast, do not shrink away from it. From the fires of Valyria you came, and so the fire that burns mortal flesh need not burn you in kind. Farewell, brother." Bran's voice echoed as he was incinerated inch by inch, the ashes of his remains flaked the air like snow.

Jon embraced the pain, determined to return and wait for Davos. And talk to Sansa, whose bony fingers he could feel on his hands even at his fugue state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Happy Holidays! I think things are pacing and there aren't that many chapters left in this story. I am new to the fanfic writing game, so I don't know how it's done... But can you people tell me what kind of other stories you would like me to write? Within this fandom, of course. Xx.


	16. Wrath Of Gods II

In the few hammering moments Sansa stood there, her sword pointed, her stance defensive, she imagined a hoarde things happening. Lannister soldier coming to take her, or her soldier coming to defend her, she even let herself hope that it was Jon and somehow miraculously he had found her; she even wondered if this was Petyr. Was he here to reap the fruit of his toil? Sansa wished she would be so lucky. She would have killed him with a sweeping blow.

But what came across her, was a green girl. She had a lean face, smoldering eyes, a bit Essoi looking. She was unarmed, and she was totally out of place in this snowy woodland in her plain frock. But she had boots on, and a wool coat. Sansa was befuddled at this new development, the whole day had been odd and she was testy. She kept her guard on, never taking her eyes off this seemingly innocent girl.

It was the girl who spoke first. When she saw Sansa, an unmistakable look of recognition stormed her green eyes. She was very light on her feet, and seemed to melt into the woods as she walked. She recovered soon from her reverie, and a cold, hard mask replaced the sudden tenderness in her features. "Don't kill me, please. But I hardly think you can even block a casual flick of a sword with that stance of yours," she said in a jarringly northern accent. And plentyful mockery. She held her hands up as if to surrender, and walked over to Sansa with a barely concealed smirk. Why did that seem so familiar in such a foreign face?

"There is nothing wrong with my stance, and I am perfectly capable of skewering you with my sword if I wanted to...oh what am I doing?!" Sansa exploded and chided herself because she realised she was arguing with a strange girl as her friend layed there on the ground, bleeding to death. Sansa shook her head, to forget the bizarreness of the whole situation for a few beats, and use it to her advantage if possible.

She looked at the girl wearily, and asked, "Who are you? What side are you on?"

"What side?" the girl raised an eyebrow, taking it all in. "I am a passerby, you see. And as such, I have no side but the side that propels me closer to my destination."

"So you are a traveller? From Essos, I think?" Sansa was putting two and two together. The girl nodded her answer. "Look, there is a war going on. And a battle taking place right this moment. I know you owe no loyalty to anyone, but these Lannister men are the worst-" Sansa started in a forced calm voice, but the girl interjected, "Most men are."

Sansa took a deep breath, and continued, "I suppose you are right. But my men, as opposed to Lannister men, will listen to me. And they will not harm you, or take advantage of you. You are a lone girl, with no company and no protection. I can give you that. In exchange for your help."

"What are you supposed to be? A princess?" the girl said in a bored voice.

"I am a queen. The queen, if we win the war, of everything north of the trident." Sansa said desperately.

"Amazing," the girl said, although her face expressed anything but amazement, "I suppose you want me to help your friend there?"

"Yes! Oh gods, can you? Do you perhaps know any herbs or something, that stop bleeding?" Sansa huffed out in a breath.

"So because I am from Essos, I am expected to be an expert in healing arts?" the girl rolled her eyes. "But I picked up some tricks along the way, yeah. Please move over, so I can have a look..."

Sansa remained on the guard, as the strange girl dressed the wound on Brienne's midsection. She wanted to ask her a billion things, where is she going, why is her accent so northern if she was from Essos, what was she doing here in the middle of the forest etc. But she kept quiet. Maybe the girl wanted to do nothing with her cause, just wanted to be private and so had lied that she wasn't from around here. Sansa herself felt like she should never have become a queen if it meant this.

"I know I told you I want no part in this war," the girl suddenly spoke up from behind her, startling Sansa. She trudged along, "But I think I saw the red soldiers chasing a few men clad in grey, you know, when I was hiding beneath the bushes to keep from getting gutted. One had Three-dragons-head breastplate on..."

That last line made Sansa's heart skip not one, but a few good beats. Jon! Sansa forgot all about guarding them, dropped her sword and took the girl by her shoulders - 

"Chasing, you said? Which direction you mean? How many men were protecting him?" Sansa frantically threw the words at her.

"He is your king, then? I surmised," the girl gave a wry smile, "Only two, s'far as I could tell."

Sansa went cold all over, and even though she had thought it was not possible to feel any more distraught than she already did on this blasted day. But she did. Jon was at an apparent disadvantage, and all she wanted was to go to him. She did not know how much help she'd be, but she couldn't stay here and do nothing either. She looked over to Brienne, who was still very much out of it. But the girl had given her some sort poultice made out of fresh linen and local herbs, and her bleeding had stopped. The colour still had not returned to her cheeks.

"Can you look after her? Will you?" Sansa said desperately to the girl.

"Not like I can go about my way in this mess, I reckon they'll take me or whatever, so why not? I'll stay here with her. Will you go after your king?" The girl said in the same monotone.

Sansa knew she was probably condemning Brienne to death or worse, but if they were attacked, Sansa would not fare so well either. If something were to happen to Jon, the chances of their survival was lower than low. The girl seemed trustworthy, if she wanted to out them she could have done so ages ago. So Sansa made a call, a tough call, and picked up her sword.

"Take this," Sansa handed the Brienne's knife to the girl, "Protect yourself if it comes to that, just run. She is a warrior," Sansa nodded towards the limp body of her friend, "All her life she has trained for things like this. But you are a civilian, run for your life. Don't do something foolish."

"Like you are about to, you mean?" the girl smirked, but it didn't irk Sansa. It actually made her smile a little, the adrenaline rush of impending doom hitting her veins faster than thoroughbreds.

"What is your name?" Sansa asked as she unbuckled Brienne's armours and donned them herself.

The girl didn't reply a long time, just concentrating on feeding Brienne some leaves to chew. Sansa thought she didn't hear her, or did not want to disclose her name. She decided to leave it.

Sansa knelt down when she was done, and kissed Brienne's brow, and whispered, "I will see you again, my shining knight, either on this side, or the other." With that she stood up and ran out toward the direction the girl had pointed earlier. She knew nothing about tracking, and would probably get lost, and die from exposure. But at the moment, she did not care.

Sansa kept an ear out as she tried to run quietly, for any threat, any giveaway of someone sneaking up behind her. But she couldn't hear it when the Essoi-traveller-who-talked-like-northerns softly said as she looked at her diminishing sillouhette, "A girl has many names, but you may call her Arya."

***

Sansa honestly could not tell how it was that she found Jon. Was it fate, was it chance, she couldn't tell. She thought the faint rustling of the leaves around her sometimes guided her decisions, "Go left" or little things like that. But she was probably imagining things. Sansa abruptly came upon a clearing, where Jon was facing another swordsman, completely oblivious of another one who was sneaking up behind him, poised with a knife.

Sansa did all she could to hurry over to the man and stop him from stabbing Jon, yet even as she drove her sword through his heart, his knife lodged its tip into Jon's back. Jon had delivered a fatal blow to the other soldier, so they were safe for the moment. Sansa could not even process the fact that she had just killed the man, because the next thing she saw was Jon collapsing to the ground. Sansa had thought the knife had just grazed Jon, but her knees gave out when she saw that the knife was hilt deep into Jon's spine.

The rest of it was a blur. Sansa felt like she was stuck in one of those nightmares where the same horrific thing keeps happening as if on a loop, and you cannot do anything to stop it even though it has happened to you once already. She held on to Jon, and did not even feel it when they came. Northern men, having won the battle, had come looking for Jon. They carried him back to safety, and Sansa tagged along.

Her stupor broke when they were back on the road, and Sansa remembered Brienne. All the Crownsguard were there except for Brienne, Cerwyn and Ravenheart. After inquiry, Sansa learned that all three of them were found and sent to the keep they were originally planning to hide the Crown. A minor argument broke out regarding where they should be taken now.

Their location was likely compromised, but the way back to the camp was long and they could be ambushed again. Also Jon needed a maester right away, so ultimately they decided to go to their original destination. Sansa mumbled them orders to locate Lord Manderly who was on a carriage right behind them as she embarked upon the carriage.

***

It had been a week and Jon was still unconscious. His wound festered viciously, like it was an angry storm brewing in a sky made of blood vessels and bones and flesh. Jon was burning up, and wasting away right in front of Sansa. The maester did all he could, to no end, however. Sansa split her time yelling at the maesters and sitting beside Brienne, who was recovering fast. She also had to make the decisions Jon would have had made, or at least joined Lord Manderly in making those decisions.

They were winning battles left and right, Ser Davos leading their army in Jon's place. They were that much close to taking Riverrun, now that the dragon army had attacked King's Landing with Dorne and the Tyrells behind them, nobody cared very much about the North anyway. But it brought no joy to Sansa; nothing did. Not even Bran's letter when it arrived late one night. Not when Brienne regained her strength enough to walk again. Every time Sansa felt like she might smile, Jon's ashen face invaded her mind. She had called him, day and night, whispering, begging, pleading, shouting, cursing. Nothing had worked; and Sansa was afraid that nothing will. It was more painful because the last time she saw Jon, they barely talked. Sansa could not believe that what she felt for Jon, he would never know.

She could not believe he would die like that, thinking she had betrayed him. That she had never redeemed herself. But that was exactly the sort of thing that usually did happen to her. Yet, the audacity of it enraged Sansa.

That night, Sansa was sitting by Jon as usual. Her dinner remained untouched. Brienne also sat at a distance, quietly. Sansa looked demurely at Jon and took his hand in hers, planting a soft kiss on his knuckle. There was no denying that she loved him, now that she was losing him, so she softly said, "I love you," to his hand. And she felt Jon stir. Sansa could swear on her life that a slow tremor reverberated through Jon's left hand, and rocked her world. Jon had not moved at all since the early days of his ailment. It was almost as if he had fought this fever in the beginning, but had given up as it became too hard. Jon moved again, this time his whole body jerked and he mumble something unintelligible. Brienne saw it too, and abruptly stood up, coming over.

Sansa doubled back and said to Brienne, "He just moved, can you get the maester? I don't want to go, in case he wakes up or says something..." Sansa couldn't tear her eyes away, but she knew Brienne would understand. And she did, almost running out of the door.

Jon was saying something now, but the clamorous castle outside drowned out his voice. Riders could be heard, and Sansa's heart lifted imagining that this must be Davos, coming here with the expert maester from the Citadel that he had been ordered to procure. That would explain the raucous footsteps fast approaching. The door flew open, and Sansa found out that she was right. It was indeed, Ser Davos with a chubby looking man, trailed by Brienne. Davos looked as stern as always, bowing deeply to Sansa and fervently said, "I hope I am not too late, your grace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everybody. I am so embarrassinly late, I don't even want to address it. Hope you enjoy. Jon POV chapter coming up.


	17. He Returneth

Jon didn't exactly remembering coming out of his deep sleep; he remembered the pain, and Sam's familiar face bobbing in and out of his visual. He also remembered Davos deep in conversation with Sansa at the foot of his bed. He wondered how much time had passed since that battle of the woods. It was night time now, Jon looked at Sam and breathed a sigh of relief.

"With a friend..." Bran had said. He had kept his word. But it still was agonizingly painful, to breathe, to even think, which Bran had promised would subside eventually. He had also warned him to not rely on his visions... kind of scared him actually. He felt quite vexed, pondering selfishly if he should stop coming back from the dead, it rarely improved anything. Before he could stop himself, he croaked out, "It bloody hurts too much..." to no one in particular; yet the whole roomful of people stopped in their tracks and looked over to him. His throat was parched and felt rusted from disuse. Still the timbre of his voice felt welcome to his own ears.

He had expected Sansa to say something, she had said so much to him over the course of his unconsciousness; most of which he had a hard time remembering. It was all along the line of how she would not be able to go on if he left her. But now that he was finally awake, she just stared back at him. Her eyes a deep pool of cold blue liquid, it made Jon wish he could drink from that to quench his thirst. Mermaid's tears gave you eternal life, didn't it? But Sansa was not a mermaid, although something akin to the merpeople's folly was in her heart. Was he delirious?

Sam hurried over to him and checked his eyes, and then softly asked him, "Can you hear me, Jon?" "Yes, of course." Jon replied, suddenly sour. "Oh, thank the gods...here, drink this for me," he thrusted a cup of camomile tea into his palm. "It will help you sleep the night. The pain will subside, I assure you. I gave you the proper antidote for the snake venom, but I'm afraid the antidote is so potent that it is making your body more reactive, thus the pain." Sam blurted out in his usual manner, and it warmed Jon's heart more than camomile tea ever could.

"Yeah, I know. Sounds complete horseshit, doesn't it? But it saved you. Healing arts are...whimsical." Sam laughed nervously, and looked at Jon with concerned eyes. They were all expecting him to go unresponsive again, which means he had done that quite a few times already. He WAS delirious. 

But he just smiled at Sam, and gripped his arm with his free hand. "I am so happy to see you again, brother," to which Sam replied, "So am I, Jon..." and then anxiously eyed everyone around him and said, "I mean, your grace." Sam smirked, and Jon smirked right back. "Wait till you meet little Sam who is not so little anymore. And Gilly, she is beautiful as ever," Sam grinned proudly. Jon replied, "I have no doubt that they are healthy and happy, they are on your watch after all." Sam did not have anything clever to say this time, so he just blushed and looked down. Jon sipped the sweet drink Sam had poured him, although he felt wide awake.

Davos cleared his throat, and bowed to him. Jon simply inclined his head, his eyes on Sansa, who was looking anywhere but at him. "Your grace, I am so relieved. You had us all worried for a moment there." Davos said happily. "More like a week, Ser," Brienne chimed in. Ser Davos glimpsed at Sansa and then proceeded, "We have won the battle of Riverrun, your grace. And we are hoping to move there and set up our base as soon as you are well enough." There wasn't a hint of pride there, even though he had won them something very crucial.

Davos kept going, "But the Dragon Queen has taken King's Landing. Cersei Lannister burned down half of the city -" and everyone chimed in, "again!" Davos shook his head in dismay, "Nothing could be done from our side, it's their war, sire. They are yet to acknowledge us, they have not made contact. But they are in no shape to march against us yet, so we can all rest easy. For now."

Riverrun. Jon's mind was foggy, but he did remember everything important. "What has been done to the Lord of Riverrun, Edmure Tully? He was held captive there, was he not?" Jon demanded of the old knight. Ser Davos looked uncomfortable, and reluctantly replied, "Nobody knew what to do with him. So we kept him in his cell, but ensured he would get enough food and drink and warm blankets. He awaits the King's justice"

Jon sighed in relief. He had imagined the worst, that they had killed him. That would mean killing family, in Jon's part. It would not matter that he was lying unconscious, miles away from there, that he did not give the order. People would always remember him for this.

"Keep him in the cell, but treat him kindly. I will deal with him when I get there. What happened to his family? His wife and son, I mean." Jon asked. It was Sansa who answered, "They are still in Lannister captivity, our forces have not run into them, and we did not exactly look for them either."

Jon said exasperatedly, "That's the heir to Riverrun, we have to find him." Davos looked extremely uncomfortable, looking back and forth to Sansa and Jon as if he knew something Jon did not. Sansa still was not looking into his eyes, but rather kind of above him. "My uncle betrayed our family, he turned great-uncle Brynden over to the enemy. Nobody in the Riverlands wants his son to lord over them. Family, duty, honor - t'was the motto of my mother's house. He neglected his duty to his family and thus, lost his honor."

Jon took a moment to put two and two together, "How convenient for you, leaving you as the only heir." Sansa was genuinely surprised, her big eyes widening some more, "Brandon is actually the heir in this case. And if he never has any children, then perhaps my children. I get nothing out of this at all." Still surprised she paused, taking in the implications behind Jon's words. Instead of looking offended or angered, she just sighed and crossed her arms as if to hug herself. "I want nothing to do with Riverrun. There is nothing left there anyway, just ghosts of my mother's happy family."

The atmosphere in the room had shifted from happy to bitter, and Jon looked at Davos for the answer to his next question, "Who is in charge of Riverrun?" 

"Your grace, all of the Council members and Crownsguard gathered here, so I left Lord Baelish there, he is supposed to entertain Robyn Arryn any day now." Ser Davos replied. Jon mulled this over in his head, distantly remembering that it was Sansa who had called everyone here in fear of the worst. Had she planned this with Baelish? But the Crownsguard kept their eye on her. However with Jon nearly dead, they could have lagged in their duty; they seemed to like Sansa better anyway. Yet it could be argued that she had plenty of chances to kill him if she wanted to, in the woods, during the nights here...yet, he could barely contain his anger at Baelish being left to take care of their greatest victory yet. "All but Baelish?! You could not wait for me to die, could you," he growled to no one in particular. Sam shifted on his feet and promptly said, "We should all give Jon a chance to rest, and sleep. Lord hand, you may resume recounting your strategies with him in the morning."

They all murmured their good nights and wishes. All except Sansa, who was the first one out. Sam hurried after her, and could be heard muttering just outside the door, "It's the antidote, my queen. It is known to make people angry and jittery. And not to mention that he is very tired...do not let his words get to your head. He is not himself."

Sansa was quiet for a while, but just as the door was being closed by one of the guards, Jon caught a whiff of her voice, "Or maybe he is more himself than ever before, the self he hides behind all his kindness and politeness..."

***

In the morning, when Jon woke up, he did not feel as if he had closed his eyes for more than a minute. He got up, washed his face in the basin and drank a cup of wine. He felt like himself again, the pain a distant memory. His legs felt weak, and he had to clutch the headrest to stay erect. It was hard to tell what time it was, because it was raining outside. Jon was set to go outside, when Sam came in. He seemed surprised to see him awake and standing in front of him, and engulfed Jon in a bear hug.

"Awoken from your deep slumber, have ye?" Sam joked. "What time is it?" Jon asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Um, you have been sleeping for two days now, my friend. It's the afternoon," Sam sat him down to check him for signs of any illness, then he changed the bandage on his back. He informed him that his wound was now healing properly, and in no time Jon will gain back the full use of his legs and other body parts. 

Jon scoffed at the last part, causing Sam to look up at him. "Yes, I have something to talk to you about," Sam said hesitantly. He cleared his throat and failed miserably to sound professional, "Since I have arrived, a few members of the council have expressed their concern to me; that...that the Queen is not yet with child. Especially your close scrape with death has them all worried. Is there, a problem?" Jon would have found this comical, if he was not seething. A problem with Sansa? Or his problem? What were they insinuating?

"Who are these few members? I..." Jon got up angrily, and instantly falling over. Sam gripped his hand and steadied him, "Don't be mad, Jon. They wanted me to talk you, it is perfectly normal to have issues in conceiving. So just talk to me."

Jon winced but decided to go with it, "It's not what you are all thinking. Sansa is perfect, she is perfect. And I think I'm okay too. It hasn't happened for us yet..." "You haven't lied with her yet? It's been months!" Sam had the wit to lower his voice down to a whisper. Jon ran his hand through his hair, and placed a hand on his hip. He leaned toward Sam and whispered back, "No, I haven't. It has been a very queer experience for me. She used to be my sister, then she has her own demons to deal with - that piece of muck Ramsay abused her and I don't think she has recovered from that yet. So we just, didn't. You cannot tell anybody, ever!" Jon felt very childish, conspiratorial, to be whispering to and fro like this.

But Sam nodded sagely, "I understand. Take your time, brother. I found it quite hard to believe as well, there were talks of you running off with your sister all around Westeros. But I knew something must have changed, you are nothing if not honorable...but do not take too long. If you leave the Queen childless, I cannot tell what will happen to her should you die. And we are amidst war, we must take such possibilities into account. A king must have an heir, Jon."

Jon didn't look him into the eye as he shrugged, he didn't tell him that he did not care overmuch about bringing a child into this cold, bleak world. Nor about the agreement he had with Sansa about this only being a sham. Sam helped him dress as he chirped happily about his time in the Citadel, their huge library, about Gilly and little Sam. He also brought in a cane, so Jon could walk on his own to the dining hall where they were all having lunch. Sansa was sat beside Davos, moving the food around in her plate sulkily. She was dressed in a drab grey dress, her hair pulled in a tight hasty bun. Overall she looked like she was having a tough couple days, but Jon still wondered how she had found him. Seeds of doubt had festered in his mind more viciously than the wound on his back, and Jon wondered if he could ever shake the feeling of unease he experienced whenever Sansa looked at him.

The room quickly took notice of their King returned from deathbed, there were murmured welcomes and praise the lords going around, and Jon limped to the empty seat at the center of the table, beside Sansa. Did they always leave it empty for him? It was hard not to feel touched by that sense of loyalty. Sansa barely looked up at him, and did not say anything at all. In fact, she finished her plate quite quickly after that, and took her leave from the rest of the table. Davos had trapped him into a conversation about when to leave for Riverrun and all the council members were elated to have their king back with them, so Jon could not even stop her.

Even if he had, what would he say? He had nothing but more suspicion for her, so maybe silence was not so bad after all. 

They decided to leave as soon as the day after tomorrow for Riverrun, because Jon would not trust that Littlefinger with his shoebrush, much less a whole castle. The Northern army had driven out the Lannisters and their sympathisers had went into hiding, so Davos decided that it was relatively safe now to travel. It was more than a days' journey to the Riverlands, they would have to camp out in the middle of the road, so some additional foot soldiers were to be ordered to meet them there.

Jon could barely concentrate on the words of his Hand; it was all Sansa on his mind. What Sam had said. It had given him another sneaking suspicion that Sansa had only kept him alive because without him, or his heir in her belly, she would be nothing. Yet he couldn't keep himself from reliving those fleeting moments of kissing her soft lips, feeling them curve with smile under his tongue, imagining his mouth on her throat, clutching her narrow waist. And every time he blinked he saw red, instead of black. Red like flame, like Sansa. Thinking about making love to Sansa, was a delicious prospect that Jon rarely let himself indulge in; except for in his dreams, or visions.

There was no point in sitting here, when he was not even listening on the discussion, not to mention feeling tingly all over with a burning desire for her. So he followed Sansa's suit, ate up his food, gulped down the wine, and feigned a headache to retire to his room. Jon thought about going to Sansa, but he was embarrassed, and kind of afraid that she would read his thoughts and find them reproachable. Sansa may have needed an heir from him, but it wasn't like she had ever tried to seduce him. It was always him, who tried to kiss her.

Confused and irritated, he ended up in his own room. Locking the door behind him, not wanting to be disturbed. He stumbled to his bed, and immediately his mind drifted to the feel of the curves of Sansa curved upon him, and the thought was like a flame to his parched nerve endings. The tension just built and built, and Jon's thoughts grew more jumbled. Having once renounced women, and being a bastard and never wanting to bring another one to this world, he kept his distance from girls and even the thought of them. He was not in the habit of pleasuring himself, and the watch wasn't abundant with muses for such thoughts either. Then Ygritte had happened, and he learned of a feeling of such grandeur that eclipsed all the other senses. Those sensations had lingered, and it had come back to him after so much time that he had spent mourning her; he could not think of her like that. But right now he had to find release, so he did. He expected it to feel filthy, unnatural, but it just felt good.

He imagined doing things to her, things that he would never get to do again. Soon the woman beneath him turned, she now had blue eyes like morning sky instead of stormy, and her hair was softer and longer. Her features sharper, more angular and younger. He was now holding Sansa as he should never do. But it was all in his mind, and so it was okay. It was okay, to have Sansa in his mind because it was increasingly becoming clear to him that in real life, it may not be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is just very annoyed from the expectations everyone seems to have from him, tired of nearly dying, and he wants to trust Sansa so that he can love her but his mind won't let him. Will it take some third party intervention to get them back on track? Idk. Maybe.


	18. The Raven That Flew Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Sansa POV; it just came to me.

Sansa did not know what she had done that was wrong this time; or maybe Jon was still angry from their last fight. What had she expected, that she would save his life and he would forgive her for everything just because of that? Yes, she had. Perhaps it was vain, and too simplistic of her to hope that. But she had prayed he would return from the dark abyss, and run into her arms, and absolve her of her sins. She had pictured so many different scenarios, none of which included Jon accusing him of plotting to take Riverrun and wanting him to die. In front of everybody.

And it was not like she had made that call herself, Manderly agreed with him that Davos and others should be present for the unspeakable, should it happen. Davos decided to leave Baelish completely on his own, probably because Robyn had taken to himself that he should be present during any confrontation with the dragons. That foolish child. But Jon jumped to the worst conclusion, and she did not blame him. But it choked her up to finally see him well, and walking and talking actual words instead of complete gibberish, because she had forgotten how bad it was between them when he was healthy and hearty, over the course of the last week.

The first few breaths when he first came to his senses, Sansa knew she should say something. Perhaps run over to him and feel his breath on her throat. Kiss him like no one was watching. He looked young as he rarely did, he was just a boy. They all tended to forget that, her included. She always founf such a safe place within his arms that she never really thought his Jon craved that same sense of security. Sansa understood why Jon would feel that she could not be that safe home for Jon, but he did not have to go after her like that.

Sansa had not even thought of Petyr recently, the old man was distant memory. He had ceased to write her coded letters after the last three of those went unanswered. She wanted him gone, just obliterated from existence; but it ate away at her that she still owed him. For Winterfell, for Jon. She owed Jon more, far more so it shouldn't matter anyway, she quickly berated herself. And one could argue that Winterfell only made things even between her and Petyr, since Petyr had left her with Ramsay, AT that monster's mercy. Sansa did not for a moment think that he would make it easy either. If he were to go down, he will take everybody with her. Part of the reason why Sansa was so desperate for Jon's speedy recovery was because of Petyr. Because that man thrived in chaos, and Jon being ill or Jon ceasing to exist altogether would have thrown the entire world into chaos.

After being dismissed by maester Samwell, or Sam as he had asked her to address him, Sansa didn't see Jon until the day after when he unexpectedly came down to lunch. She had gone to see him the night before, but Ravenheart had informed her that Jon was still asleep so she had come back. As Jon entered the dining hall, the whole room went abuzz with excitement, and Jon seemed happy enough to be among them. Then he looked at her, and his expression soured again. He looked sad, tad disappointed to see her, so Sansa lowered her eyes and ate as fast as possible. She could not stand this heartache.

She retired as soon as she was done eating, and went straight to the library, one of the crownsguard trailing behind him like a shadow. It had become her asylum because no one ever thought to look for her there. The hosts of the keep were most gracious as the Lannisters had pestered them quite obnoxiously before Jon's army drove them away. They had opened all of their doors to Sansa, offered all kinds if amenity, and Sansa had spent the last few days just reading. Reading to keep her mind off of Jon's illness, or reading to find some cure for said illness, sometimes reading about Targaryen history. On this particular day, she settled for an old account of Queen Alysanne as a patron of art and literature. She fell asleep soon afterward with her head resting on the yellow pages and woke up in the middle of the night, in darkness. It didn't seem right; because there was no fire, no light, no warmth. It was cold and clammy, like a dungeon. There was no guard in sight either.

The moment it took Sansa to come out of her sleep induced grogginess, was all the dark winged figure needed to perch in front of her. Sansa was going to scream, but then she saw the face and it was Bran. Her little brother Bran who was not so little anymore, but grown. So Sansa realised it was a dream, and calmed herself before she spoke, "This is a dream, right?"

Bran's eyes sparkled, his lips looked as if they were about to break into a smile. "Yes, Sansa." Sansa got the feeling that this was Bran and also not Bran, and Bran-who-is-not-Bran read her mind instantly, "You are quite right...but we don't have time to dally. Have you severed your ties with Petyr Baelish?"

At the mention of this, Sansa's heart paced and she had to say it over and over again in her mind to convince herself that it was just a dream. But it was also more, hyper real, and this man in front of her was also more than Bran. "You have to, if you are to gain back Jon's trust. And you must gain his trust and love, because it cannot go wrong like the last time..." he said.

"I should never have conspired with him, I know that and how many more times do I have to be sorry for that?!" Sansa yelled, not being able to hold back. Bran clucked his tongue, and said soothingly, "You did exactly as you should have. Your marriage to Jon is the best outcome out of all the convergences. Petyr was instrumental in that; what matters is that you were united with Jon and both of you found love when none of you thought it was possible to love again. Does it really matter how it came to be?" Sansa often thought about the same thing, and still felt guilty no matter how she tried to reason with herself.

"But caution is warranted whenever dealing with men like Petyr, and I do see Jon's point. You could extract valuable information from him, but he could also get you in trouble." Bran continued in a warning tone, but Sansa didn't need to be lectured in the vileness of Petyr Baelish. She knew it well.

"I wish I could just kill him and end this, for once and for all," Sansa seethed in an uncharacterical manner. "No, we may have need of him yet," Bran chided. Sansa narrowed her eyes at the winged creature and gritted her teeth, "What did you mean, when you said it cannot go wrong like last time? You cannot possibly mean Tyrion..." Bran laughed at this, though not unkindly, and offered, "No, sister. I am not talking about that. I am talking about the last time fate guided its wheels to unite a Stark and a Targaryen. It went horribly wrong, many people died, and you cannot let that happen this time. You and Jon must overcome your differences; there is so much love between you two, you must not let that flame die."

"Are you saying that as Bran, my brother, who wants me to be happy, or as three-eyed-raven and because we are pawns to you?" Sansa retorted coldly. Bran's laughter subsided, and he bit back, "Why not both? True love, is that not all you have wanted all your life, since we were younglings?" Sansa chewed the inside of her cheek, then looked away before answering, "I don't think Jon can ever forgive me. He doesn't even look at me, he hates me!"

"And you thought that by not talking to him, not helping him piece together all that has transpired recently, you were improving the situation? Ignoring him would get you his love? Were you playing hard to get, sister?" Bran's mocking voice echoed in the empty library halls. "For such a bright person, you can be quite dense. Talk to him, please."

"In the grand scheme of things, this must be quite important for everyone that Jon and I make up, for you to show up in my dream like this." Sansa thought inwardly, but again Bran read her mind. He leaned forward and looked at Sansa, dead seriosuly, in her eyes. Blue against blue. "You are very intuitive, Sansa. It is time for you to wake now, you can't sleep in you chair the entire night." Sansa couldn't tell if he was jesting, or quite serious.

Even as he said that, Sansa felt herself waking up to the nicely lit, warm, cozy library, with the memory of his last words still lingering, "Westeros shall pay lest thou bond is torn, from ice and fire the world shall be reborn..."

***

Sansa did not remember coming to Jon's room from the library after that weird dream, but somehow she ended up there. She turned the knob to find it locked, and when she looked at Ravenheart who could always be found where Jon was, manning the entrance, he just shrugged. Sansa knocked twice, calling out his name, to no avail. Sansa gave up after a while, going back to her room. She had Beth bring her dinner to her room to avoid interactions with anyone; she felt like melting away.

Sansa closed her eyes and her mind went back to the time before all of this, before Jon found out about everything she had done, when he would hold her through the night as she battled monsters in her sleep. She should have killed Petyr the day of her wedding, when he came in and threatened Jon. Wait, how exactly did Jon come to know? Sansa had never stopped to think... Maybe she should kill those bastards too.

Beth brought her some wine, and since Sansa literally had nothing else to do, she got to drinking the delicious liquid by the fire. Sansa lazily thought if she was slowly turning into Cersei, drinking wine and thinking about killing all her enemies; Sansa chuckled and when Beth asked her to share the joke with her, she did. It warmed her body down to its core, muddled her brain, slowed down the torrent of thoughts, and slowly she drifted into a tired slumber.

***

Sansa woke up to find that the other side was empty, and that her head was splitting from a throbbing as heavy as King Robert's warhammer. Sometime in the night, Beth had goaded her out of her clothes and into the warm covers of her bed. Her heart twisted in the hollow of her chest as she caressed the empty pillow beside her head, and she felt sick. She groaned as Beth entered her room and seeing her awake started talking loudly, the sound booming in her sensitive ears.

Sansa said groggily, "Beth, my dear, please keep it down?"

"Oh my apologies, your grace. Shall I bring some hot water and tea for you? The cook is not awake yet, milady will have to wait for breakfast." Beth said nearly whispering, looking abashed. "No, I'm not hungry. I will take breakfast with everyone else, I have to keep up appearance." Beth chirped happily, "But the king's health is so much better now, you must be looking forward to going about your usual routine with him now." Sansa rolled her eyes.

Sansa cursed loudly when her stomach lurched as soon as she stood up from her bed. She hastily moved to rinse her face as Beth set about laying out her clothes. Not having any intention of dressing up so early, she asked Beth to leave her for now and later to go and look for some tonic from the maester that might help with hangover. She would drink some water and go right back to sleep, she resolved.

Jon was probably going to leave her. But at least he was onto Baelish, and would probably take him down when the time was right. She felt relief at that thought. Jon might take care of the Baelish problem for her once and for all, and she will be free.

She was wiping her face when a rap at her door startled her. It was really early, but her guards never slept. But they did not announce anybody, so Sansa automatically knew who it was. It could only be one person in the entire world who would not be announced when they arrived at her door. Jon Targaryen, King in the North.

She fastened a nightgown over her lingerie, and despite her situation looked over the mirror and fixed her hair. Giving up trying to tame her bedhead, she croaked, "You may come in."

Jon's pale face and dark eyes appeared at the opening, and he cleared his throat in his nervous manner.

"Sansa," he said the her name in half a breath, cradling it in his tongue, none of the bitterness from the last time he had spoken to her lingered in the sound. "I woke up early and thought I might come by and see...you didn't have nightmares, did you?" Sansa shook her head, not trusting her voice. So he cared? If she had bad dreams or not? "Good. Ravenheart told me you came to see me last night? I was sleeping." A smile curved the corner of his mouth beautifully, and Sansa started to feel hopeful again.

But the smile died quickly, and Jon's face grew sincere. "We need to talk..." he began but Sansa interjected, "I need to clarify some things, you must be really confused since getting out of that coma. I have some really strange tales to tell you." Jon looked skeptical but remained silent. "A long heart to heart is overdue, maybe you should sit." Jon sat down and Sansa decided to start from the beginning, when Brienne got injured by her own knife...


	19. One Fine Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What a loss to spend that much time with someone, only to find out that she is a stranger" - Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a long chapter (for me), a lot of back and forth between Jon and Sansa. Just conversation and the eventual make-up scene between them. Just a trigger warning ;)

Jon still remembered how sad and alone Sansa looked when he had told her that she had ruined everything. It was funny because Jon was so drunk at that point, he barely remembered anything clearly. But the sharp agony in Sansa's eyes stuck with him; because it had pleased him. No, not pleased, it had healed him. Of his own heartbreak when he learned about Sansa's betrayal.

It was not like it came completely out of the blue. His dreams had warned him multiple times, and yet, it hurt more than he could have ever assumed that it would.

So when, this fine morning, he stood in Sansa's room and faced the beautiful girl he called his wife, he only saw that sad and lonely girl he had glimpsed that night in the tent, many moons ago. She looked haggard, her face red and blotchy, hair sticking every other way. Her white chest was visible a lot of the way down, her nightgown thrown only loosely over her body in haste. Sansa was talking about how a strange girl had told her where to find Jon and also had saved Brienne...it seemed far fetched but Sansa wasn't lying. Jon could tell.

Jon could still feel the bitter anger that took control of him the day before, but ever so slightly. He had been paranoid for no fucking reason. And as always, just looking at her clawed away at his mind until he could feel nothing else but this great need to be close to her. Jon was only half listening, his mind racing ahead of Sansa as he already knew what happened afterwards; last night, after Sansa left, Lord Manderly paid him a visit and divulged every decision he and Sansa had made the time he was sick. 

Jon looked at Sansa's face and marveled at his own foolishness. He didn't stand a chance when she was near him, when they shared the same air, when Sansa looked at him and smiled at him like he was the only thing that mattered to her...he did not stand a chance at not being completely in love with her. He didn't exactly know when it all started, or why. There was nothing in Sansa that should appeal to him. She was a liar, he did not know her at all. She never let him see her, she never let anyone see her.

Even before all this, before he left for the wall and Sansa for the red keep, Sansa was a pretender. She was a master at that pretend game. She pretended to be the perfect daughter, did everything Catelyn asked of her. Did everything Ned asked of her. Did everything those obnoxious little friends of her asked of her. She did have a mind of her own, although people always thought her to be a sweet, mindless droll, Jon knew that was not true. Sansa did all this to blend in, to be accepted, she did not have Arya's courage to break through the norms on her own. She had a different sort of courage. To do all she was supposed to do and make a life for herself, she would do anything. Anything.

She would turn her nose at Jon just like her mother did, but Jon remembered that once he fell sick to a bone fever, and of course Catelyn could not care less. But in between his wakeful dreams, he had spotted Sansa's freckled red face full of concern. Only fleetingly, but she cared. She still did. Then why, why was she doing this to him?

"Ahem, Jon? Are you listening?" He was sitting at her small, two chaired breakfast table, while Sansa sat on her covers. She spoke cautiously, uncertainly, a little hopefully. Her face had lit up with hope as soon as he had entered. What did she hope for?

He had been sitting there, just thinking for who knows how long. Gods, what was wrong with him?

"So, I am aware that I said some things to you that night, when I first awoke. 'Tis a bit hazy, my mind was overworked, but I remember everything and I was perhaps, a little harsh." Jon paused to take a breath.

Sansa followed his movement with worried eyes as he got up from the table and walked over to sit beside her. "You did not say anything I didn't deserve to hear, Jon." She drew her hands down and laced them on her lap, her eyes downcast.

"Still, I did not mean to talk to you quite like that. I was supposed to sit down with you and talk to you; you know I heard you some of the nights when you sat beside me and talked to me. I know this past week has been hard on you. I had meant to thank you for saving my life. Instead I lashed out on you, and perhaps did irreparable damage to our...friendship." Jon chose his words carefully, not wanting to repeat the mistakes of last night. "It is not much of an excuse, but I was quite exhausted, and my judgement was impaired. And I suppose the whole thing with Littlefinger is still like a thorn stuck inside my nail."

Incredulity bloomed in Sansa's sparkling eyes, although which part confused her Jon could not tell. Perhaps it was the fact that Jon chose 'friendship' instead of 'relationship' despite both of them having confessed their love to each other on different occasion. But Jon remained cautious because Sansa was drunk on one of the said occasion, and a liar and he could not believe that she could ever love him.

But as Sansa spoke, her bewilderment became quite clear, "You did not do irreparable damage to our friendship, I did that. And you said words to hurt me because my actions hurt you more. I am surprised you still want to have anything to do with me at all, much less continue what...we had before. And you don't have to thank me for saving my life, you have saved mine too." Sansa said carefully.

But suddenly she blurted out, "And before you can say anything more, I have to apologise once again. I am sorry. I will do as you ask, and never talk to Lord Baelish ever again, no matter what."

"Please, Sansa. I am embarrassed, and regretful of the way I treated you in front of everyone; you were probably as tired and weary from those long nights staying awake beside me. I should have comforted you as you tried to comfort me when I was weary. I am angry with you still, and it will take a long time before I can trust you again...unless, you tell me everything." Jon ran his hand through his hair to give them something to do.

Sansa shifted on her seat as if weighing her words and trying to determine if she should speak her mind or not. "Everything? About what?" she finally decided on clarification. "About you and Baelish. He took you under his wing after the purple wedding, right? You have been travelling with him ever since, and some very sinister things happened on these journeys. What was the nature of your relationship with him?" Jon had come prepared with his words. If they were to reconcile, Jon would have to know everything, or he will spend his life being paranoid around her.

"Petyr always seemed to have a thing for me... he had been in love with my mother when they were young, and my aunt Lysa was in love with him," Sansa began, her voice a bit mechanical. "And they never really moved on from that. Petyr saved me from Cersei Lannister, or she would have my head on the chopping block that very day. I played no part in it, consciously that is. And neither did Tyrion, at least not to my knowledge. But Cersei would see me punished anyway. However, I later found out that it was actually Petyr, who had conspired to have Joffrey murdered. He made me an non-consenting accomplice; he basically trapped me in a situation where I would be dependent on him for protection. He made me a suspect in everyone's eyes, everyone in the crownlands, so I would have nowhere to turn to but to him."

Jon nodded, his expressions neutral. He did not care for Joffrey, and would actually be grateful to Petyr if that bastard hadn't dragged Sansa into this muck. He urged her to continue, and Sansa started again - "Then he took me to my aunt's, who I thought would help me. I knew that she was a bit...insane, but I thought she loved my mother. But she turned on me, and again Petyr saved me by killing her; although I think he had his own reason as well. We met Brienne on our way, and she offered to take me... but I did not trust her."

"Littlefinger killed your aunt? Why didn't the Vale do something about it?" Jon demanded. Sansa grasped helplessly for words, then said each of the words deliberately like she was trying to convince herself, "They trust Petyr. My cousin, Robin, trusts Petyr. He convinced them that my aunt committed suicide, I helped him. I gave them false accounts of her death, and they wanted to believe that because they were all tired of Lysa's madness."

"Would she have killed you, your aunt? What did she have against you anyway?" Jon mused. Sansa rolled her eyes at Jon, "Why do you think? And yes, if Petyr had not intervened she could have thrown me down the moon door. She held me at the edge by my hair... She loved Petyr all her life but he always loved my mother. Then she saw how Petyr looked at me... he looks at me and sees my mother there in my blue eyes and my red locks. She saw him kiss me-" Jon's eyes flared with anger at this, so Sansa hastily added, "I did not kiss him back! But I could not shove him out either, he was offering me protection and I know how it sounds, what it makes me look like. But I thought my entire family was dead and everybody was out to get me, he was the only one who seemed to want to see me safe even for whatever twisted reason. I was terrified at the thought of doing something to displease him, I was afraid that he would cast me away."

Sansa was trying her best to avoid sobbing and breaking down in front of him by the looks of it, but a lone teardrop slipped through the crack and trailed down the apple of her cheek, marking it red. 

Jon gazed at her intensely for a moment, breathing loudly and still quite annoyed. He turned his face away from her, and said quietly, "Then he left you with the Boltons." Sansa wiped at her face, and said unsteadily, "Yes. I begged him not to, even before I knew what a monster Ramsay was, I begged him not to leave me there. I wanted to stay in Vale with my cousin, who is an insolent child but seemed to like me. But then he reminded me of what the Boltons had done to mother and Robb, of the part they played in that night in the twin. He got it into my head that I could avenge them, and if I bided my time, Stannis Baratheon would take over Winterfell and appoint me the wardeness of North as the sole surviving Stark. And foolishly, I believed him. I believed that I would get that lucky," Sansa scoffed. "And the rest you know."

"Aye, I know. Which is why I don't understand, how could you?! Conspire with a man who left you to die?" Jon dropped all pretense of quietude, and just shouted. Sansa winced and her eyes flickered to the heavy oak and iron door, causing Jon to lower his voice. "I understand everything you told me, that I was perhaps vain and that I did not listen to you, and nobody did. But wasn't I still a better ally than Petyr Baelish?"Jon whispered angrily, leaning toward Sansa but still facing away. Sansa seemed to breathe him in before answering, "I have no excuse for my behaviour at this point, none. I understood everything, I was not at peril and yet I decided to trick you into marrying me so I would have more power."

"Marrying you was probably inevitable, it was awkward and felt vastly unnatural, but Baelish would have leaked the part of me not being Ned Stark's son whether you conspired with him or not. And if I did not marry you, then I would have lost half of our army. That's not the part that I hate. The part that I hate the most is that you felt like you could not come to me with that information; we could have figured something out together. With Bran and Davos. You weren't alone, yet you left me alone." Sansa had no reply to this.

They were quiet for a long time before Sansa got the courage to tell him more. She would tell him everything and just get it out of the way, and if he leaves her so be it. She would go back to live with Bran and Meera... being a Queen was not the only thing worthwhile in this world. So she simply sucked in a breath, which made Jon look over at Sansa, and she said, "That is not all. At the day of our wedding, Petyr came to me, and threatened to kill you - or more like he was letting me know of his plan. I was shocked at this, but I was not surprised. I saw it coming; but at this point I realised that I perhaps was out of my depth dealing with a man like him."

Jon's eyes widened, and he asked, "Did you agree to go with this plan?" Sansa shook her head, "No. I did not. But I didn't explicitly oppose him either. He warned me that if I betrayed him, he would expose me, later on..." Sansa wrinkled her nose at that. "After that day though, he did not bring it up. We only talked about strategies, and events of the war and what would be in our best interest; that is all. And I tried to distance myself from him after that, and then I got to know you better and I really did stop seeing him at one point..."

Jon interjected, with an edge to his voice, "And what was the extent of your...relationship with him? What did these meetings with him entail?" Jon looked her straight into the eye and sensed that Sansa understood exactly what he wanted to know. But she stared straight back, a touch of defiance in her voice as she said, "In Petyr's mind, it probably is a love affair. He is delusional. But I of course did not see him as anything more than a necessary evil in my life. And if you are inquiring after physical intimacies-" Sansa paused, and resumed a thunderous heartbeat later, "There wasn't any. There weren't many chances, our meetings were short and very discreet, thanks the gods. So the most he would do was either touch my hair or kiss my hand in that creepy way he always does. And..."

Jon urged her on, "And?" "There was this one time. He kissed me on our wedding day, right before we said our vows-" Sansa hesitantly vocalized. Jon ran his hand through his hair which were beyond wild at this point, and asked, "But it was before we were married? And he kissed you? You didn't let him touch you afterwards, did you?"

Sansa's voice raised a few bars as she replied heatedly, "No! I was never unfaithful to you, not in that way."

Jon covered his face with his hands and croaked from behind them, "That is very subjective, Sansa; depends on who you are asking." Sansa took his hands by the wrist and drew them down, "Jon, listen to me. Please, just listen. I will understand. Whatever you do, it...it will be hard for me. You can stop being so kind and nice, and do what YOU feel like doing." Sansa urged, again on the verge of tears. Jon looked at her and again cursed the gods for placing him in this predicament, "They way I feel, Sansa, the way our father raised us, tells me that you have been most dishonorable...you do realise what you are doing to me, right? What this is doing to me?! I can't let you go, but how do I keep you here? What you did, the conspiracy, the betrayal, it doesn't just wound my pride. It has shaken something deep inside me."

"My brothers, in the night's watch, I had thought that I'd found a family in them. Then they stabbed me. And then I came back, found you and Bran, thinking this is one family who will always have my back, and I don't even know you anymore!" Jon tried to get up from the bed but his knees gave in, so he crashed into carpeted floor and stayed there. When Sansa did not come to sit by his side, or did not attempt to touch him, Jon was grateful for that. The air between them was the last defense he had against his own treacherous desires.

"How is that possible? You talk as if you hate to love me," Sansa broke the quiet when the silence got too loud.

"Hate is a very strong word, Sansa, but it isn't strong enough." Jon exhaled, his breath caught when he glimpsed at her. "I decided last night that these conflicting emotions I have toward you, was eating away at me. That because I didn't know everything about you, everything about all that you've done, because too much had been left to my imagination, it was only getting worse. I was avoiding you because I was trying avoid causing you a heartbreak. Of saying something that I could not take back. So I came here today, to know everything, hoping it will give me closure."

"And did it? Have you decided?" Sansa's eyes were shining dark blue at this point, but her face was straight and smooth as if she felt nothing. She seemed to pay no mind the the tears that was pooling on her décolletage, drenching the thin linen of her nightclothes, leaving nothing to imagination.

"No. I am still just as torn as ever. But you came back for me, Sansa. In the middle of hell, you came for me and you saved me. I know the smart thing to do is to hate you, but I can't." Jon sniffed, and felt tear streaming down his face as well. "My black brothers killed me, but you saved me. It would have made everything that much easier for you to just stay there, safe with Brienne and that stranger, but you came...at your own peril. I can't hate you."

"Please, Jon. I thought we agreed that we will abandon pretense. You must hate me a little." She shoved him with her shoulder; how could she jest at a moment like that? She wiped at her eyes, a sad smile adorning her pale mouth.

"Let me also spare you the trouble to search for words. You came here to let me know that despite being horrible to me some times, you absolutely love me still and even though you hate me a bit, you can forgive me?" Sansa was still joking, but Jon could tell the nervousness that lied underneath her folly.

Jon took her hand in his, after some deliberation. "Look at me, Sansa. I have something to tell you."

She obeyed, fixing her sapphire eyes on him. "Do you believe in destiny? Soul mates?"

Sansa scoffed, "I used to but..."

"Well, I do," Jon stopped her in the middle with urgency. "And I have my reasons to think that you are mine. My soulmate, I mean. Our destinies are intertwined. Last night it occurred to me that I was trying to stay away from you not because I don't want you, but because I want you so much that I don't trust my heart around you. Because it is easier to convince myself that I abhor you, than to open up my heart to you with risk of it being torn apart. I have been a coward," Jon paused for a breath, then resumed-

"You and I are meant for great things, together. I have these dreams Sansa, which show me the truth. The future. And they almost always come true. And I have seen you in so many of them; I feel in my heart as if I have already spent a lifetime with you. But then I open my eyes, come back to the present and I feel let down by you all over again. And today you just made it that much clearer to me that I don't know you at all. But I still think we can make those dreams come true; I just need time."

Jon stopped, taking in Sansa's reactions. That hope was coming back in her eyes, and as he searched for something dark, malicious, he couldn't find any.

He resumed, "But my life isn't only mine anymore. Westeros...humanity depends on me and I have to see them through. If you try to hinder that, I will have to part ways with you. It will be painful, but I will do it. That is my burden. You talk about games and politics but this is magic, madness, these are the matters of the heaven and hell. This is bigger than us. I hope you realise what is at stake here..."

Jon had not realised that Sansa had finally come down onto the floor while he had been talking. Sansa seemed too engrossed in what he was saying to notice that her knees rested on his calves, both wrists caught neatly in her hands, her face perched just a few inches away.

"So what do you want from me?" Sansa's asked when he didn't talk for quite some time. Jon was concentrating on the rise and fall of her chest, the slow rhythm washing over him like the whisper of autumn leaves. Her long reddish curls that had fallen over her shoulder tickled his arms. Jon's paranoid mind wondered if she was trying to seduce him, but the rational part argued that Sansa had never tried to do that. Nor was she likely to start now. And would it be so bad if she did?

"Truth. Who are you?" Jon scrambled for words as his thoughts wavered from the path of rationality. Everything in him screamed to forget to be so cautious for once and go with what his body craved so badly. If he chose to claim her this morning, would she turn him down?

"Sansa Stark, daughter of Winterfell. I used to hate you because I thought you were stupid and undeserving, but I turned out to be horribly wrong. I used to think I deserved it, but I know nothing, as it also turned out. I believed you made a fool out of yourself against Ramsay during the battle of the bastards, but I realised that what you did that day, was because you loved our brother so much that it had driven you mad with rage, and I didn't love him enough because I gave up on him." Sansa paused as Jon drew her closer.

But Jon breathed, "More."

"For the first time in my life, I see you as a person; not just a nuisance of a half brother, or a saviour in my dire time. You are something out of a storybook, a prince out of ballads. You are the prince that I was promised, by all the songs and stories and by papa, when I was little." Sansa kept on.

"And like all stories, you seem unreal and too good to be true. And I am afraid I will taint you, with my misery and misfortune. The truth is, you should be unattainable, yet I find you in my grasp. And I will happily lay down my life for you, if you will have me." Sansa looked wildly in front of her, the space between them. "I don't know what I am saying, Jon, don't make me go on..."

And Jon didn't. He just kissed her soundly on her lips, tasting sleep and wine on her mouth. Their tongues danced like dragons for many a heartbeat before Sansa had to come up for air. Sansa had left his  
wrists well alone, and they now rested on his shoulders for support, while he ran his fingers through her hair.

Jon started to kiss her throat and brushing his lips against her soft skin as he always did in his dreams, which always drover her mad, "After I found out about Petyr, whenever I saw you, I saw lady Catelyn looking down on me, making me feel like a bastard outsider again," he felt his tear wet the side of her neck - "Never in my dreams I thought you would feel anything for me, but somehow I had let myself hope, I willed it to become true, only to find my world shattered again. Are you even capable of love anymore, Sansa?"

Sansa groaned and leaned away from him to hide her face beneath her fingers, "I'm sorry, Jon. So sorry, gods. Why do I always make the wrong decisions? Why didn't I tell you before? You would never trust me again now...never..." her tear spilled over and Jon could taste the salt in the air. She made to get herself away from him, but Jon held her by the waist.

Jon slided his other hand from her hair to her collarbones, then traced it down her shoulders to the inner corner of her wrist. He kissed her veins, as if tasting to see whether it really was ice there.

Jon left his feelings bare. His insecurities, his fears, his hopes and dreams. And if he did not trust Sansa to some extent, he wouldn't have done that. Was he a liar too? 

"I would give my life to protect you. I swear on the Mother, I would sooner die than let anything happen to you, or become the cause of your pain anymore. You have to believe me." Sansa gasped in between the kisses, deeper and deeper.

Jon's eyes widened and his grip loosened, "You don't mean that... why would you love me like that? You know what they call me. The Dead King. The Bastard King. They say I have no soul and sometimes I feel like they are right..."

Sansa tore her lips away from his to look him in the eyes, lips parted from the exertion, "And they call me the Ice Queen, and much less savoury things; that Joffrey made me into a kept woman. And you still love me anyway. Why can't I do the same?"

"Really? Truly?" Jon bobbed his head forward to touch her forehead, nose to nose, his breath a mist in the freezing northern wind, and Sansa answered, "Yes."

Jon loosely wondered as Sansa ran her cold hands through his curls that all they had left was each other; of that other life before everything went so horribly wrong. Maybe that's why he was drawn to her, she had a semblance of that bittersweet existence. They somehow ended up lying on the bed, locked in each other's embrace. Desire burned in Jon's veins, but he was too tired to do anything about it right now. Emotionally drained by their intense exchange, and then just giving in to his want for the comfort of another body left him dizzy. He felt too much, knew too much, hoped too much at this moment to lose himself in her. Sansa pulled the furs over them and tucked their feet under it. He was too warm and cozy to move, so they fell asleep that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's time to introduce our third protagonist into the story, sort of excited. As always love you all for reading and sticking with the story.


	20. Deliberations: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My holiday is coming to an end, and this might be the only chapter in foreseeable future. I am trying to write a AU JonSa one shot for the upcoming Valentine's Day, but after that I will be back to continuing this story. Enjoy.

The first thing Jon did after arriving in Riverrun safely with other council members was to reassign his army to new roles. The Lannister threat mostly squashed, they had to start preparing for any impending attack from Daenerys Targaryen. Jon wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, but he had to agree with Petyr Baelish that until Daenerys gave him some sort of endorsement, she was a viable threat. Jon grudged agreeing with that snake on anything, but as long as they were depended upon Vale, he could not do anything about it. This man had murdered a king and a woman, framed Sansa and gods knew what else - but until he could sit with Robin Arryn and the lords of Vale in the Eyrie and discussed Baelish's folly, his hands were tied. They had yet to leave their mountain alcoves, and Jon felt that he should talk to them without Baelish present or tipping them off beforehand. How he could pull off such a feat, he did not know.

The majority of the bannermen from the riverlands and all of their men were immediately dispatched to be readied to orchestrate a blockade around the Reach as they supplied food to the southern realms. They needed to be prepared as the Dragon Queen had taken King's Landing and was yet to answer to Jon's envoy. Petyr learned through his spies that Daenerys and Tyrion were at odds over the whole situation. Tyrion wanted her to relinquish her claim over the north and let north be. Daenerys found it traitorous of the northmen to denounce her, and wanted to take it by any means necessary.

Sansa and Jon were walking on the isles of a tower in Riverrun, arm in arm. King in the North now truly ruled all of north. Manderly fleets had struck Iron Islands while both of their liege lords were busy securing the dragon queen's hand. 

There were a complications, however. Sansa viewed her uncle Edmure's surrender to Jaime Lannister cowardly and traitorous, as he had sworn allegiance to Robb. Jon argued that the war of the five kings ended years ago and truly Edmure had no other alternative. Many called for his head, and for his son to relinquish any claim to Riverrun. Tension was rising in Riverrun because now they were sitting on their behinds, waiting for Daenerys Targaryen's signal; either retaliation or reconciliation. Jon often thought wartime was better in this regard because there was more fighting and less politics. Less connivance and vileness.

Jon wanted to know if Sansa really meant it when she called her uncle a traitor in front of the makeshift court, so he had brought it up during their afternoon walk which quickly turned into a quarrel.

"Yes, Jon. I meant it. The man is a coward, and an opportunist. We took Riverrun back, while he handed it over to the Lannisters. And Brienne told me how he treated his kin, my kin, great-uncle Brynden. He handed him over to them!" Sansa uttered without wasting a breath. Jon turned around testily to lean over the railing, and murmured, "Well, Brynden Tully refused to abandon the castle to save Edmure. One might argue that Brynden had it coming." "I'm sorry. Wasn't it you who was talking about father's teachings? Do you think he would stand for a traitor like Uncle Edmure? He is not fit to lord over Riverrun, who in turn lord over the Riverlands," Sansa said evenly, "He is weak, mother always said so. These people will not follow a man who is so easily sold and swayed. We need someone strong in this region."

Jon tried to soak up the sun and hoped it would give him the strength to help this obstinate girl find compassion. He asked her, "Then who would you rather have here? And do you really want me to execute him, your uncle? Because if I pass the verdict, then I-" Sansa cut him short to mechanically repeat what Ned Stark always said, "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, I know. But I don't... want him to be executed, just disinherited. And imprisoned. We will rule the Riverlands together, or you can appoint someone you like."

Jon now felt that Sansa was a bit sad as she talked, there was a shadow in her usually springtime sky blue eyes; while she really meant the words, she also hated vocalizing them. But it did not matter, because she was spewing hate speech.

Jon turned to face her nevertheless, and took her hands in his, trying the pacifist's approach, "But he did all that for his own family. Must he be punished for that? And that innocent boy, why should he be deprived of his birthright?"

"Yes, he did many stupid things for his family, Jon. That is exactly why he cannot be allowed to rule this extremely diplomatic part of the Westeros. As for his son, I don't know..." Sansa trailed away.

"We could take him in," Jon said eagerly, "foster him and groom him for lording Riverrun when the time comes."

Sansa looked at Jon in mild amazement, "You are willing to do so much for a people you don't even know..." she sarcastically added, "Did you secretly take lessons on 'how to be overly sympathising with people who don't deserve it' while you were supposed to be guarding the wall? From some mountain sage? I find it in equal parts stupid and endearing, to be quite honest."

"Ha ha, you kill me with your sharp wit milady," Jon could not help smiling a bit. This Sansa was one his favorite Sansas, cheeky and reachable. But he wanted to press his idea of adopting the child, so he resumed, "Look, it should agree with the riverlords. They should have no problem with this arrangement." Sansa's mood soured again, and she said annoyed, "Jon, that child is part Frey. Uncle Edmure's marriage to Roslin Frey was a horrendous ruse played to wipe out the Stark lineage from existence; who knows if that child is even a Tully? They incarcerated my uncle after the...events of the wedding feast, is what I heard." Sansa paused to see if Jon would disagree but he seemed lost in thought. So she kept on -

"Jon, nobody really wants a Frey descendant upon the seat of a Lord Paramount. That family is cursed."

Sansa hastliy added as Jon opened his mouth in a patronizing gesture, "As they should be, that house needs to be obliterated. Wiped from the face of the earth like we did the Boltons."

"Freys have been punished enough. And it's not like Walder Frey really let his daughters into his vicious plans, he actually married his daughter as part of a plan. He pawned her off. Roslin Frey has since been in Lannister captivity. Is she that much different from you, Sansa?" Jon countered, grasping her hand as he implored her.

"Yes, quite different. My family did not kill the king and his family while they feasted with them." Sansa spat at Jon. She was getting angrier by the minute at Jon's insolence.

Jon dropped her hands from his, and faced away from her to grip the railing tightly. He did not understand Sansa in moments like this. She was so kind and gentle with Bran, with him too, but then with her perceived enemies she was ruthless and unforgiving. While he did want her to be compensated for all the wrongs that were done to her, he would not do it at the sake of innocent people.

"If we start killing people simply because the family they were born in betrayed us, this blood vengeance will never end. Soon there will be no one left for us to rule, all of Westeros laid down as a feast for crows." Jon said sadly, one last attempt at trying assuage her anger.

"This is why I go behind your back. You and your Mother's mercy act will ruin us!" Sansa said angrily, not caring for who heard them. She gathered her skirt in her hands and made to leave.

"Don't chastise me, Sansa! My patience is wearing thin. Roslin Frey is an innocent woman and and I did not come back from the dead to punish innocent people like that!" Jon said angrily as he held her rather tightly by her wrist.

Their quarrel came to an abrupt end as suddenly the bell rang to notify them of a lone rider storming toward their keep. They both turned and looked down. A guard yelled, "Who goes there? Name yourself and your purpose."

"I am an envoy from Queen Daenerys of house Targaryen, first of her name, the unburnt queen of the andals, the rhoyner and the first men, queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the great grass sea, breaker of chains, mother of dragons. I pray entry so I can deliver this message dispatched by the queen, to her trusted emissary, to be delivered directly to her nephew, the Prince Jon Targaryen." It was a woman, apparently. With a Dornish accent. Jon wondered vacuously if she had brought some Dornish red; Sansa would be beside herself if she had.

Jon looked at Sansa, and found his excitement mirrored in her features. They had been waiting for a reply, for so long. Sansa said with a smirk, "That title alone is enough to scare any enemy off, or bore them to death."

That earned a dry smile from Jon, though short lived. The guards approached Jon for orders on what to do with this envoy. Sansa turned to Jon, "A female horserider is very uncommon, judging by her accent I wager she is a dornishwoman. Maybe a sandsnake, Lord Baelish learned that they are in league with the dragon queen."

"She bears no banner, my lady," the guard offered. Jon nodded, but Sansa was not done talking-

"The dornish are known for poison. Do not underestimate her because she is a woman. Their steels are laced with poison too," Sansa looked wryly at Jon, her expression dark. 

"Search him for weapons and poison and diseases. Then bring him before me in the great hall. And you, notify Ser Davos and the council." Jon quickly gave his orders and sent them on their way.

After the guards left, he shuffled closer to Sansa and said in a low voice, "And our argument isn't over. We will discuss Roslin Frey later." Sansa pinched his cheek, which were likely red from the harsh wind as they always were, and whispered, "Like I said, we wouldn't be proper husband and wife if we didn't fight."

***

"I am Tyene Sand," Sansa could see the woman wore dornish colours now that they stood a few arms apart. She had relinquished all of her weapons but not her shield which bore the sun and spear sigil on it. "The daughter of Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, blessed by mother Rhoyner, a knight of the Queensguard. I come before you to bring forth her offer to negotiate as kin to kin," She said as her eyes swept over the whole room assessing everyone with clever eyes.

Her eyes finally rested on Sansa, and her lips quirked in a corner. "Her grace the Queen Daenerys also congratulates your highness on your marriage to the lady Sansa of Winterfell," she nodded to Sansa.

"It is your grace, lady Sand, and King Jon. And Queen Sansa. He earned that title not by his Targaryen lineage, but by his mettle and they rule these lands by popular choice. He is no prince of the realm." Ser Davos said sharply.

"Please, Ser Davos, I am quite sure it is a misunderstanding. The Dornish are not as familiar with northern affairs as, say, the people of crownslands," Sansa cooed in a feigned innocence.

"I sincerely apologise if I offended your graces. But my queen was made to understand that King Jon wanted to reconcile with his aunt. Although when you talked about an alliance, she had in mind something very different. Being Targaryens and all..." Tyene paused, assessing the court before her, letting the implications of her speech settle in the minds of those present.

Jon was truly taken aback. He urged Sansa to lean down so he could whisper to her, "What is it with everyone trying to marry me to close relatives?" Sansa pressed her lips, and took his hand before whispering back, "I expected this, though. Daenerys has remained unmarried and is looking to make an advantageous match. You probably would have been her top choice even if you were not a Targaryen."

Jon grimaced at her before turning back and addressing Tyene, "A very wise Targaryen once said to me that a lone Tragaryen in the world is a dangerous thing. So I understand my aunt's eagerness to reunite her family, and as you can see I am very much happily married to my beautiful queen."

Sansa suppressed a smirk, instead smiled graciously at Jon and squeezed his hand, moving closer to him. Petyr Baelish wheedled from Jon's other side, "Aside from a marriage proposal to a married man, what are the other terms? The north is to remain independent of the Iron Throne, that much was made clear in our raven."

"Then you must sit down to negotiate with her. You may bring no arms and no men or women but five of your advisors. Our queen shall do the same and leave her dragons in the red keep. We shall meet in neutral waters, and the queen shall hear your terms. Think of it as an invitation," Tyene smiled with all of her teeth, the smile reeked of recklessness. Sansa invited her for an overnight stay, it was already dark. But she turned it down, and walked out in the pitch black darkness with the air of arrogance she had come in with.

***

"We should be preparing for the Others' attacks, instead we are here parlaying." Jon grumbled as he helped Sansa board the beautiful Essoi warship named Rhaenys. They were the first ones aboard save Brienne, who was a way ahead them. She stood at a respectful distance, eyes straight ahead. The others were still climbing up from their dinghy boat- Davos, Baelish and Glover.

When Sansa was finally aboard, she huffed as she chastised Jon, "You have already sent half of our army back in north to aid Bran in preparing a defense against the enemies from beyond the wall. Do you wish north to bend their knees to a southern governence again? No. Then let's do our duty well, and soon we will be returning North."

Jon relented, and steeled his mind. Still the prospect of meeting his aunt, this fearsome dragonrider made him nervous. He also felt far too young to make these decisions for the entire Westeros. One wrong word and he could be thrusting thousands upon thousands to their demise. The others had almost caught up with them, waiting for Jon to march forward.

Sansa noticed the tension in his shoulders and made soothing circles along his wrist. "I am nervous too, you know. I just hide it really well. I have always been afraid of fire, and they say she is fire come to flesh..."

"You don't look like a Targaryen," a voice startled them because they were facing each other, deep into conversation.

Jon turned to find a short woman clad in gossamer silks even in the cold sea breeze, and seemingly not fazed by it at all. Her hair was like spun silver, it shone even in the dim, foggy morning light. Intense purple eyes scrutinized him and the woman beside him.

"I must take after my mother's side of the family," Jon replied in polite temperament to this odd first remark from his long lost, presumed dead cousin. Everybody fell silent, they stopped and ogled the ethereal beauty in front of them. She had an elfin quality in her delicate features, a narrow waist but ample bust and bony shoulders. The only thing at odds was her full lips, which tugged at Jon.

"Lucky for Ned Stark, I suppose, that the Stark features took dominance. If you looked like me, or my brother, he would not be able to get away with stealing you." Daenerys replied in an offhandish way.

"My father did not steal Jon, he obeyed what Jon's only surviving parent bid him to do. He shielded him from Robert Baratheon's wrath, his spies, gave him a home and cared for him as his own son." Sansa retorted in an equally careless demeanor, surprising Jon. It was unusual for Sansa to say anything less than calculated and proper, ever since they were children.

"This is all about perception, I suppose. Anyway, I welcome you, self-proclaimed King and Queen in the North - " Sansa started to protest at this subtle dig, but Jon squeezed her hand in a placating gesture. Daenerys's intelligent eyes did not miss this inteeaction, and she resumed with self-satisfied smirk playing in her eyes - "...please, come inside. Everyone is waiting."

Jon and Sansa followed her to the Queen's cabin of Rhaenys, where a huge round oak table was set, furnished with luxurious red and black chair. The Targaryen sigils were etched on the wall hangings, and trapesties.

The advisors stood by their sides. Jon knew Tyrion and Tyene Sand by sight, and could guess Lord Varys by his distinct features. But there was an old lady he did not recognise, but Sansa seemed to be acquainted as they smiled at each other politley and the old lady gave her a slight nod. An Essoi man stood rigidly by the queen's side, and his eyes never left Brienne behind Sansa. She had insisted on wearing armor even though she had to leave Oathkeeper back with Pod.

Daenerys began as soon as Jon and Sansa took their seats, "This is an odd situation. I came to Westeros thinking I am the only Targaryen left, and as such claim my birthright only to find a living son of my brother. By the old customs of this land, you are the heir to the Iron Throne, but I am the mother of dragons, and my will is the law." Daenerys paused to train her eyes on all of them; Glover squirmed in his seat, taken aback by the onslaught. Petyr's smile did not waver even under the harsh glare of her eyes, and he occassionally nodded at the old lady. 

Seeing as no one contested her declaration, she proceeded, "And my will says that women can inherit as much as men, and so after my brothers, I get to sit on that throne." Finally Jon could see how a woman of such small stature and beauty could strike fear into the heart of men of all realms. She exuded a calm terror that had a way of creeping up your spine... now add three fire breathing winged beasts at her bidding. Amazing.

Davos cleared his throat behind him, and that brought Jon out of his reverie. They all expected him to take charge of the situation in the face of such bullying. Jon took a deep breath and continued, "I quite agree with you, Queen Daenerys. Or should I call you aunt?"

Daenerys was surprised at this turn of the conversation, but quickly recovered to say, "Please call me Daenerys, nephew."

"Then you must also call me Jon, your grace. As I was saying, I too believe that women are equal to men in every respect and hope that some day all of Westeros will come to see it that way as well. I assure you, I have no intention of claiming the Iron Throne. I just want the north to be free of the southern command, and that too because that is what the northerners want." Jon finished and hoped to the old gods that he had not overstepped in any way.

"Aegon the conqueror took the north from the Winter King himself, and as his heir, I lay my claim to the North and that makes you a traitor, unfortunately. I will take what is mine by fire and blood, if necessary." Daenerys smoothly countered, cold and beautiful. She had just made an open threat; but underneath all her confidence and arrogance, she must fear them a little bit at least, Jon wondered.

"Dragons are all she has," Sansa had said during their meeting the day before. "We have more men, the North, the Vale and the Riverland behind us; loyal, winter-hardened northerners. But those three dragons laid waste to the Ironborn fleet of Euron Greyjoy, and I am sure they were loyal hardened ironborns as well. Dragon fire was a weapon unlike any other, whoever wielded it wielded destiny itself," Sansa had capped her impressive speech with a sense of foreboding.

When Jon remained silent, willing his aunt to carry out the conversation, Daenerys continued, "But perhaps that won't be necessary. Until I marry and have children, you are my heir, Jon. The prince of Dragonstone, as your father once was. You can rule north in my stead if you want, but you must kneel before me. Do not make me do anything I don't want to."

Jon could not stay silent any longer, at the face of such open threats, that would be deemed weak - "Will you really risk going to war with us? Your forces are battered and bruised after the war of the sea. After the mad queen blew up king's landing along with a portion of your army, you suffered losses. Your Dothraki are dying from the cold; you will soon face food shortages if you so much as make a move against me. How do you plan to overthrow me with a hungry, thirsty, cold and bitter army in a foreign climate?"

"If she unleashed her dragon, the war will be won in a fortnight. Oh but let me introduce myself first, I am Olenna Tyrell. Quite a brooding young man you are, King Jon, not what I expected from an upstart at all."

"There is only so much snow that a few dragons can melt. And right now, the north is so cold that even dragons might freeze in the air, Lady Tyrell," Lord Glover grumbled from behind Jon, before Jon could respond to the old lady's remarks.

Sansa jumped in to play the solicitor, "The north does not resist you because they don't deem you worthy, Queen Daenerys. They would resist any other king but a king who has Stark blood. And the last Targaryen king burned the lord and heir of Winterfell while the whole southern court looked on unblinking. It just is not possible anymore, for us," Sansa moved a hand between the two parties, "to reconcile."

Daenerys turned her gaze on Sansa, "You were supposed to be a sweetling from all I heard, but you have more fire than Drogon it seems... I wonder what else are you wrong about, Lord Hand."

Tyrion had stayed unusually quiet throughout this entire time and barely even met her eyes, or Jon's. Jon had expected him to at least talk to Sansa; he had been most kind to her during her years in King's Landing. He had even been kind to Jon all those years ago, in the only manner a man like Tyrion knew how to be kind. Now for the first time since they had entered the room, he looked up and met her eyes. Jon felt Sansa stiffen beside him, self-conscious under his gaze.

"War changes everyone, you grace. But the words that Queen Sansa speaks are true. The north remembers, goes the saying. Even if the king and queen bent their knees, there would still be war and violence." Tyrion said tactfully. Sansa made no reply, but only stared coldly at the dragonrider. Her insolence seemed to unnerve Sansa as she had become used to being the queen everyone revered and feared; nobody had talked to her like that since Cersei and the Bolton's bastard.

"So we are at an impasse, here," Varys sighed dramatically.

"Our propositions are simple. Leave the north alone, and we promise to never attack the south. Everything south of the Trident is yours to do as you please. We are eager to open trade negotiations as well, in time. That is all we want," Petyr Baelish put forth, although his greedy, shiny eyes were fooling no one. Jon felt irritated at the man, he was not fooling anyone that he had any intention to leave the Iron Throne alone. But they would obviously read it as Jon's will too, which could not be farther from the truth.

"There is something else I need from you, and you must heed me for the sake of the realm," Jon quietly uttered.

"There is a new threat emerging from beyond the wall. And before you make a snide remark about grumkins and snarks, Lord Tyrion," Jon said as Tyrion made to open his mouth, "Know that I have seen and fought them myself. The Lord Commander of night's watch, the Lord of Winterfell and a maester in training have all seen them."

"What kind of threat? I was led to believe that you forged alliance with the wildlings," Daenerys inquired, an eyebrow quirked at Lord Varys.

"The Others and their wights. The Others are monsters made of frost who wield ice swords that can break steel and they can raise the dead to do their bidding, turn them into wights. I have witnessed it all in Hardholme." Jon said trepiditiously.

"Well, if dragons exist, I suppose these White Walker creatures can be real as well. How did you survive them?" Daenerys surprised everyone with her compliance to believe in an outlandish tale, even Jon and the others on his side. He expected much more difficulty to persuade her.

"What? This man died and was reborn and he sits among us. Fire does not burn my skin. Should anything surprise us anymore? Magic has come back to the realm with the resurrection of the dragons, we might as well accept it." Daenerys explained.

"Well, Sam...Samwell Tarly, fellow black brother who is now a maester, killed one of them with dragon glass, I killed one with my valyrian steel sword. The wights can only be destroyed by fire." Jon paused to ponder something, then continued, "And we have reason to believe that dragon fire would also kill the white walker. Even if they can't, still dragons will be useful to tackle the wights." Jon proposed.

"White Walkers only flourish in the snow and ice, don't they? What do we have to fear from them?" The dragon queen said defiantly, "Although, if North submits to me, I will help you defend it against the Others with all I have," Daenerys said eagerly, she thought she had found a weakness she can exploit.

"You may think that, but the long night is upon us. Word is, it is colder than ever before in known history in Dorne and it's snowing in the Reach. Winter is coming," Sansa said in a dire tone, "and it is coming to all of Westeros. After they are done with us, they will come for you and ravage your lands with us in their ranks, as wights. It is in your best interest to keep them from ever penetrating the wall." Sansa said through gritted teeth.

"My brother believes that the others don't flourish in the winter, but they actually bring the winter wherever they go. Should the north fall, the winter's war will come to you and you will have only half of the force you could have had to defend yourself," Jon added.

"Well, both parties have laid out their terms. Maybe we should take a break, mull all of this over, and reconvene in the afternoon," Ser Davos proposed.

Jon and Sansa's advisors left first, then Sansa and Jon bid their aunt goodbye and made to leave. As Jon stepped out on the deck, Jon felt a prickling on his neck, a flash of impending danger. He felt that strange warmth in his body, which he always experienced after his dream vision; but he was awake and this had never happened to him in wakefulness before. He slowed down on his tracks and pulled Sansa back closer to him; with the desire to protect her and to be protected by her in equal parts.

"What is it, Jon?" Sansa asked worriedly.

"I don't know, Sans. I feel like-" Jon couldn't find the right words, so he gave up, "Uh, it's nothing I suppose. Let's get to upstairs." He tried to smile but it came out as a lopsided grimace. He followed Sansa upward, not knowing exactly what could be waiting outside for him that was so sinister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger-y ending, I will try to write the part II asap. Sorry if this chapter was a bit boring.


	21. Deliberations: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deliberations III will finally see the culmination of this threat...bear with me. As always, thanks for reading.

Sansa felt bone weary from the deliberations. What was the point of even talking when there was no chance that either of the parties would give in? After their recess on the starboard, where everyone wholeheartedly agreed that Jon was not going to become the prince of Dragonstone, they headed back to the cabin and argued some more. Petyr had remained quiet, his eyes on the distant horizon, which worried Sansa. The sun drifted to the west, and Daenerys invited Jon and Sansa to have tea with her which Jon politely accepted.

Jon and Daenerys left together, Sansa lagging behind for the moment it took her to untangle a piece of her gown that had got stuck under the chair. Everybody's eyes were on Jon and Daenerys, exchanging pleasantries, so no one noticed when Petyr bent down to put her train into order. He quietly whispered to her, "I know he has you under watch at all times, and that he suspects us of treason. But I have not given up on you." 

Tyrion's head whipped to their side, eyes narrowed at Petyr. Petyr gave him an uncomfortable smile, and then directed his words at Sansa, "There you go, your grace. Now you can walk -" and this got Jon's attention as well. Oh great. Just wonderful. But Petyr wasn't finished, he looked Jon in the eyes and enunciated the next word with more force than necessary, "Freely." Jon parried with a cold smile, and turned back to follow Daenerys out of the room, not even glancing at her. Sansa felt like getting the knife from under her skirt and driving it through Baelish's heart this instant.

Sansa hurried to follow them out, and to get away from Petyr, but he followed her like a shadow. Brienne looked back at Sansa disapprovingly; "Yeah great, it's let's judge Sansa day," Sansa thought bitterly. When everyone else was out into the deck, Petyr whispered in her ear before he got out too - "When all hell break loose, come to me."

Before Sansa could confront him, he had vanished. Sansa's mind started to slow down, trying to decipher the threat, but she kept her feet moving. She had to warn everyone else; but how? She came out into the purple glow of the dusk, and moved to Brienne. She would know what to do. And Daenerys's people wouldn't find it odd that Sansa was taking her Crownsguard aside. Brienne seemed alarmed when Sansa yanked at her arm, holding her steady where they were standing, "I think something bad is about to happen. I don't know exactly what. I don't even know when, but we must be prepared."

Brienne looked back at her, as if trying to discern if she had went cuckoo. She said in a confused tone, "How can we be prepared for it if you can't tell me what it is? We left all of of our arms back in the camp."

Sansa whispered demurely, "I don't know know. Just be on your guard. Have Jon's back, okay? Not mine, the king's." Brienne looked at her again as if Sansa had lost it, "I will, your grace." She patted her shoulders in that motherly manner again, but this time it annoyed Sansa despite herself. It was either people thought she was a perilous seductress or an guileless child; there seemed to be no in between.

Sansa shuffled toward Jon, joining him and Daenerys. She smiled sweetly at Daenerys and said, "Can I steal King Jon away from you for a moment, your grace? We will be joining you for a tea in a short while, you go on ahead, please." Sansa tried to keep the edge out of her tone, but it found a way to sneak in. But Daenerys graciously stepped away, and Jon's smile disappeared the moment she turned back.

"What do you want, Sansa? I was making some progress with her, now is not the time to dally." Jon spat at her. Sansa, taken aback by this hostility, stammered a bit as she said, "Okay, there is no need to be angry. Petyr came and talked to me, not the other way around. And he warned me, that something bad is about to happen. To all of you." Jon furrowed his eyebrows, his expression going dark, "What did he tell you? Is he planning something?"

Sansa's eyes wandered to the horizon, and she said uncertainty, "He did not have the time to give me the minutiae of his latest evil plan, he just gave me the heads up. That something sinister might happen, and I am to run to him when this event occurs. He still thinks I am in cahoots with him."

Jon scratched his beard subconsciously, his eyes much softer when he met Sansa's gaze, "Well, you just took away his surprise element. But other than that, this does not help us at all. I wonder, how would he get armies here? Both Daenerys's and our people are manning the ports...and there are warships in the deeper waters."

Sansa bit her lips absently, and mumbled, "I don't think he meant a guerilla attack or something like that. I think it is...more. Something else. Magical." Now Jon was looking at her like she was insane. Sansa sighed and opted for a segue, "Worrying does not achieve us anything, and you are quite right that Petyr brilliantly concealed nothing of his heinous plans and still managed to instill fear in my heart. So we should go and drink our teas, eat our biscuits...let's not keep Daenerys waiting." Sansa paused to look at Jon and felt dismayed to see the worry lines covering his forehead. She felt this urge to reach out and smooth the lines with her cold fingers. Instead she took Jon's arm, and quickly pecked the corner of his mouth, a gesture that took him by surprise. But he did not seem displeased.

Sansa continued to lighten his mood, "Perhaps that's the danger Petyr warned me about, Daenerys demanding our heads for being late." Jon chuckled as they walked towards the parlour, and breathed between his laughs, "She is not like that at all, you know, what people make her out to be. She is quite sensible and well-mannered. Father would have found her most charming." Which one? Sansa could not help wondering. Ned orr Rhaegar? Sansa's heart stung a bit for no reason, and she endeavored to ingnore it, "You got that from five minutes of conversation with her?" Jon shook his head and raised an eyebrow, "I happen to be an excellent judge of character, Sansa." Sansa had to stifle her giggles as a stern looking bald young man opened the parlour door for them. The nervousness was palapable, pressure weighing down her young shoulder.

Tyrion was sat beside Dernerys, and after Jon and Sansa were seated, the man who opened the door came to stand at Daenerys's flank. Jon sipped the tea politely, Sansa surreptitiously looked over to the bald queensguard and wondered if he was always this uptight, this controlled, this...inhuman. Daenerys scrutinized them with her beady eyes; ultimately, it fell to Tyrion to break the awkward silence -

"Ahem, Lady Sansa...it has been many months since I last saw you. I wondered what became of you, and am glad to see that you are not only doing well - but you are actually thriving. Congratulations!" Sansa could readily detect the thorn in his blooming accolade, but instead of letting her annoyance show, she smoothly replied, "And I am happy to witness your successes too. I already know from experience that you make a competent hand, and hope that you will serve Queen Daenerys more than adequately," Sansa nodded at the silver haired woman, whose eyes sparkled with pride at the praise of her loyal servant. Sansa had struck the right bird, and her tense shoulders visibly relaxed.

Jon put his teacup with a faint rattle, drawing all eyes on him, as he adressed Tyrion, "I know that my wife was married to you briefly...but it was a match made under political duress, and likewise it was disregarded," Jon paused to give way to an even more uncomfortable silence.

Tyrion looked somber as he pondered quietly before speaking, "As it should be, your grace. Lady Sansa was a child back then, and the match was made as much to ensure the north stays put as to humiliate me..." Tyrion gazed kindly upon Sansa's face, "Not that they succeeded; I was honoured to have the hand of such an elegant and kind girl, however brief it had been," Tyrion nodded at Daenerys as if testifying to Sansa's character, but hastily added to Jon's frosty glare, "But I never really saw Lady Sansa as anything more than a child who had suffered great loss, and therefore needed my protection and care." That answer seemed to satisfy everyone, and Daenerys smiled at Jon when he finally softened his eyes on Tyrion.

Sansa felt a lump form inside her throat. The Sansa Tyrion knew and thought nothing of in terms of threats, the Sansa she had left behind and vowed to never go back to, was that Sansa so bad after all? People liked her, loved her even. And now Sansa was despised by the only man she has ever loved. Was being a queen worth it? She forced a smile even though she felt like crawling into her bed and never get up again from the shield it provided. Shield from the world, the scrutiny, the expectations, the vices. 

But the rational part of her mind found her voice and compelled her lips to move, "And your heart belonged to someone else back then, as mine belongs to someone else now," Sansa squeezed Jon hand without glancing at him, "and it would be best if we all just forgot all that transpired in the king's landing and move on towards a better future." Sansa tried to give out an indulgent smile, but it even fell flat to herself. But still, Daenerys seemed agreeable and Sansa realised that she had said the right things again. Tyrion however, looked frigid at the mention of the girl he had loved back then, Shae was her name, causing Sansa to wonder what had become of that girl.

Jon smiled at Sansa as he said, "If there was one man who had treated my wife with a modicum of sympathy at that wretched keep, it was you, lord hand. And I have not forgotten how you had treated me as a person, not just some random bastard, many moons ago during your visit to Winterfell and the Wall..." he turned to Daenerys, "You have chosen a man with a mind as sharp as needle but with a heart as big as the ocean. I hate the Lannisters for what they did to my family, both my mother and my father's family," and Sansa spotted a sheen to the dragon queen's unsettling eyes, "but I cannot hate you, lord Tyrion."

After that, the ambiance of the tea party improved considerably, as much as it could with two potential monarchs vying for the throne everyone coveted for. Jon and Daenerys talked for most of the afternoon, exchanging stories of their past and getting to know each other; like cordial cousins do. But Sansa couldn't shake an ominous feeling at the pit of her stomach, and maybe that made her apprehensive toward this seemingly innocent exchange between relatives. She and Tyrion sat uncomfortably, avoiding each other's glances, nodding here and there, and Sansa burned nimbly with some unknown desire. She could not figure out what it was, though.

***

Tea took much longer than they had anticipated, leaving no time for resuming their earlier talks. Both parties agreed to bear the white flag for the time being; talks would be continued at the earliest convenience. Jon looked almost forlorn that their time aboard the Rhaenys had ended; Sansa politely curtsied to Daenerys while she barely nodded at her. But her eyes were much softer and the curve of the mouth less forecd than that morning. Jon was unsure of what to do, so he uttered words of farewell, and bowed. Surprisingly, Daenerys stood upright, and Sansa bit back a retort with all her might. Jon had lost round of one of the mind games that had been going on since morning. True royals didn't bend their backs to anyone but the gods... sometimes not even the gods. Daenerys seemed to have it all worked out, but Jon had conceded to her glory.

As they were climbing down, Jon looked back at Daenerys and in that moment Sansa could define that odd burning in the pit of her stomach. It was jealousy, the fact that Jon never looked at her with admiration, with that visceral awe the Dragon-Queen inspired in him. She inspired that in every man to be quite honest and possibly women too, Sansa was jealous of that.

Sansa could be queen of the entire world, Westeros, Beyond the wall, across the Narrow Sea, Essos and beyond; it all could be hers. But she could never inspire that awe in every room she walked. An aura surrounded her, an aura of something as old as time and as new as the first drop of dew in winter. A conflict of nature. While Sansa herself felt quite earthly, subject to her emotions and needs, not transcendental of humanity, but at the most viscious core of it. She was corrupted; and if Daenerys was too, she was excellent at hiding it. Sansa kept on walking with her head held high though, jealousy had never been her style.


	22. Deliberations: Part III

The journey back to their camp was frosty; and Jon was not thinking about the weather. Something was up with Sansa, she was unusually tense. Part of it Jon could dismiss as the matter of Baelish and his plans threatening them all pressing on her mind. Jon really believed that Sansa was genuine about warning him about some impending danger, that she really cared. The fear in her eyes was more fierce than her fiery locks. Unfortunately for her, Baelish had not given her any clue as to how this death and destruction will come upon Jon. The information was useless, Sansa's attempt at preventing it futile. But Jon had expected Sansa to be discussing with him the different way they could get attacked, or ambushed. Jon cleared his throat and said, "So, what do you think Baelish would do? I mean, you know the man. Can you give me some insights?" Sansa's eyes flashed briefly over to his, her voice was quiet as she said, "I have been with him for a long time and understand the inner workings of his mind, yes, but no one can truly claim to know a person, predict all of their actions. I cannot put together this puzzle, not with the limited information that I have been given." Jon nodded, and started to reply but Sansa began to stray farther down from him, choosing to ride beside Brienne. Jon craned his neck to see that she was not talking to Brienne either; just lost in her thoughts.

But that was not all that there was to it; there was something else in her aloofness. A sort of longing rattled Jon when she departed to be in her tent as soon as they entered the camp, without a word to him. Sansa had been trying to win Jon's trust and adoration back for days, now. So it struck Jon as really odd that she would be so docile today, instead of chirping in his ears constantly like she always did. He went to his tent, took a bath, and sent a message to Sansa to come have dinner with him. He wanted to discuss the fate of Baelish with her, he figured it was high time they determined it. He would deal with the repercussions of damaging the relationship with their eastern allies later; the man was going around, making threats in daylight. He also called upon Davos, he valued his insights.

But his squire came back saying that her maid had declared that she is sick and therefore, could not join Jon for dinner. Annoyance flushed through his veins, although he did not know why. The rational part of his brain argued that maybe she really was sick, and maybe that's why she had been so drawn back since their foray into Daenerys's warship. But the other part of him felt like she had just slighted him, that she was displeased with something he had done and was trying to show him up...not even realizing that she was holding up important affairs, possibly thwarting a conspiracy against the crown. He quickly briefed Davos about all that he knew about Petyr. He raised his eyebrows when he told her about the parts about Sansa's involvement but held his tounge; Jon suspected that Davos already knew bits and pieces, if not all about Baelish and Sansa, and therefore was hardly surprised. 

They ended up deciding to take lord Baelish into custody before dawn, so that it would not cause much commotion and spectacle. They would interrogate him, and later inform all the council members about the development. Jon was not worried that they would sympathize with a southern spy like Baelish, but knew that an inside quarrel would neither be good for his campaign's moral, nor for the treaty negotiations with the the Dragon army. The less people knew about this whole affair, the better. It was all decided, and Jon handpicked the best, most discreet soldiers to carry out the job, with Davos to lead them. The soldiers left with their mandate after being dismissed. Davos hesitated in his seat for a while, with Jon lost in his thoughts, quietly sipping wine. Finally he cleared his throat, and leaned toward Jon as if you speak in his ears.

Jon raised his eyebrows in surprise as Davos gripped Jon's shoulder and drew him closer, and whispered, "What about the Queen?" Jon went stiff all around his body, and said rigidly, "What about her?" Davos said with his grave eyes darkening, "What if that snake gives testimony about the Queen being implicit in his subterfuge?" Jon exhaled sharply at this, and said, "We dismiss it as a lie to cause a rift in the crown, to throw us off balance..." but Davos was not having it. His eyes darted around as if scaling out invisible eavesdroppers, and said icily, "What if he presents us with physical proof of the collusion? What then?" Jon took in the implications...treason was one of the worst crimes in Westeros. A queen tainted with treason and adultery... everyone would paint Sansa as the Cersei of the north. But he shook out the possibility from his mind and stated confidently to Davos, "I know Sansa has no hand in this..." he could see that Davos getting ready to interject, so pressed on, "despite her past...dalliances with Baelish. I know this not because I am deluded with any words or promise Sansa has made to me, trusting her with all my heart," - and he could not keep the edge out of his voice - "I know this because I have kept track of her ever since all was revealed to me. She never met with the man, nor contacted him in any other way except for today. So carry on with our plans, Ser Davos, he cannot take cause any more trouble than he already has."

After that, Davos left him alone with his thoughts. And they were not pretty thoughts. His mind reeled from all that Davos had said - could Sansa have found a way to communicate with Baelish after all? Was her concern, her warning all part of a ruse? Jon couldn't believe so, logically it seemed impossible. The men he had placed in her guard, and even her maids, were all loyal to him. They would not lie to him. But could he really trust anyone? His temple started throbbing, Jon had started to see backstabbing evil everywhere he looked and also started to realize that this was no way to live. This really was no way to live; so he decided to abandon this train of thought, and decided to give Sansa the benefit of the doubt.

But his worries surrounding the beautiful, complicated redhead was far from over. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to quite down his mind, his ego; why was Sansa giving him the cold shoulder again? They had reconciled that morning so long ago, before Riverrun, a memory still bright in his consciousness. After that it had been cordial, sweet even, between them. Yes, they had had arguments and fights here and there, but why was she suddenly so cold towards him? He had not done anything to upset her that he could think of...and why was he so bothered by Sansa not talking to him over one evening? Was he not being petty and childish? But he knew from experience with Sansa, things can go wrong in a minute; time was of the essence here. He wanted their marriage to work, he really did, for him, for her and for the north.

So, after an hour of introspection, Jon decided that he should go seek her out. If she was pretending, Jon needed to call her out on her childishness. If she was really sick, wasn't it Jon's duty to make sure that she was okay? As both her king, and her husband? He would sort out their differences while the strife was fresh, instead of resorting to passive aggressiveness they both tended to adopt in these situations. The way to Sansa's tent was quiet, deserted. Ghost accompanied him, his cold red eyes alert and ready. A few soldiers who had patrol duty were out and about, and bowed reverently when they saw Jon passing. If they were surprised to see him out this late at night, alone, then they did not let it show. Jon did not care, Ghost was all the protection he needed. A cold night air was blowing Jon's soft curls back and forth, they had grown longer and framed his pale face; but Jon's mind drifted towards Daenerys. Such a remarkable woman, he thought. He admitted that she was beautiful, everyone said so, although Jon found her too slender, too small and too...fair-haired. Her features were foreign, he was born in an era where Targaryens were all but a myth. Their ethereal beauty, the stuff of ballads. It was not her beauty that had drawn him toward her, nor the family affiliation, it was just the fact that she was so unabashedly regal, and commanding. She was strong, and though Jon had not had the opportunity to meet them, she commanded three dragons.

One of which was green, Jon had learned. Jon felt a weird exhilaration to recall that prophecy-dream of him, riding a green dragon. He also remembered his dream of sitting beside a silver-haired woman in the throne room, who had clearly been Daenerys; he was sure of it, now that he knew what she looked like. What it all meant? Jon did not know, and as he had learned to do, did not care much. These fleeting glimpses came and went, some panned out, some did not. He did not trust them as he once had, he would not let them have power over him.

Shaking his head as if to metaphorically shake the thoughts loose, Jon lifted his head to see that he had reached his destination. The tent was quiet, and Jon frowned when he saw that the guard outside her tent was asleep. When he prodded him, he did not awaken but rolled off into the dirt road. He wasn't asleep, Jon gritted his teeth, he was unconscious. His heart flew to his throat, as he rushed into the tent. It was empty, although the fire was burning in the corner. There was no sign of struggle, the bed was made, tea was steaming in a cup on the corner table. Sansa had left the tent, Jon could surmise, not long ago.

Jon quickly exited the tent, and went around the back looking for footprints. The snow was deep, although not fresh. It hadn't snowed that evening at all, so there would be footprints. All of his hunting instincts kicked in. He traced to sets of prints, two women's, by the look of it. Jon followed them without wasting a breath; all of his horrors came rushing back - was this Sansa betraying him again? More so, what would he do to her if she really was? He would do the necessary thing, no matter how much it killed him. The surity of that thought made him shiver. As he had suspected, the way led out of the camp and into the woods. It was a starless night, pitch black. He heard the soft rustling of Ghost's paws crushing the snow as he trailed him. Jon had a lantern in his hand, which grew dimmer and dimmer in the damp night air. He trudged along, even though the back of his neck tingled with apprehension. As he ventured deeper and deeper, he heard faint noises, and quickly put out the light. He followed the voices and with every step he became surer that it was Baelish talking. Soon enough he saw two dim flickering lights, and three cloaked, hooded figures in the snow.

Jon darted behind a tree, and could see Baelish talking to the other two slender bodies whose faces he could not glimpse. Jon assumed one was Sansa, and the other her maid. So the maid was the mole; Jon had underestimated Baelish. He whizzing voice spoke, "- infiltrated King Jon's most faithful prison army, and all it took was some gold coins." The maid chuckled, and said, "The winter is hard, and the cold meat they serve us in that shite camp is harder. It is no way to live, milady." Finally Jon heard Sansa speak, her voice laced in ice, "Kath, your work is done here. Go back and wait for me in the tent." The maid left, and Baelish went on, "I wish I could have gotten to her earlier, but it takes time to weed out the weak minded ones, especially from your ever so loyal northern servants." Sansa looked around, and said impatiently, "So, why have you summoned me here? It must be important, since you went through all this trouble just to get me here. We don't have much time till Went wakes up." Baelish eyed her greedily, and said, "You mustn't worry about anything, Sansa. I have taken care of everything, your king will never find out that you were here. He won't punish you...tell me, has he hurt you?"

Sansa's voice was carefully neutral when she replied, "He has never laid a finger on me..." Baelish chuckled and interjected, "Uh, how that must have disappointed you." Sansa replied with an edge, "I haven't an inkling about what you are saying, Petyr. Are you going to tell me about your plans to destroy Jon or not?" Jon could hear the nervousness in her voice, and knew that Petyr must hear it too. Jon knew that Sansa must comply with him if she were to find out his plans, but how could he tell if she was pretending or not? Either Sansa was a traitor, or she was prudent. Which was it?

Baelish drew closer to Sansa, sending Jon's blood singing in his ears, making it hard to stay behind the tree and just listen. But he made himself do it, because he knew that the prick was about to disclose it all. "How do you beat a dragon, Sansa? You take the fire out of him. You pull out his claws, you cut his wings. But you cannot do it, I cannot do it, because we are just mortals. Only another Dragon can. Jon is a threat to us, but Daenerys is an even bigger threat. But if we could make them take each other out, it solves both problems." Sansa said with a dry laugh that Jon could imagine did not reach her eyes, "That is near impossible to do, they are quite taken with each other." Baelish jeered at her, "Is that resentment I hear, in you voice? Are you falling in love with that bastard?" He took her hand and inched her closer, but Jon could see the struggle in his arms. Sansa wasn't budging. "Seriously, you brought me here in the dead of the night, freezing my arse off, to mock me? You are even more psychopathic than I originally predicted. If you have something valuable for me, say it. Otherwise, let me go back to my tent."

The shadow of doubt darkened his face, casting a grimace as deep as the shivering sea, and Jon grew restless. Sansa had been doing well at her part, up until Littlefinger brought Daenerys up. That seemed to have thrown her off her game; but at least Jon was now nearly sure that Sansa really was fishing for information, not giving Jon up. Baelish said hoarsely, "Why, so you can run back and tell it all to your half-brother, hoping that would make him finally come to your bed at night?" Sansa jerked away from Petyr, but he only tightened his grip on Sansa and turned her back. He pressed her against a tree, putting all his body weight on Sansa's, holding her in place. Sansa protests were muffled, as Baelish spoke over her, "Really, I would have thought I trained you well not to fall for a pretty face like that, Sansa. I thought you would have gratitude for me, for placing you where you are today. I made you Sansa, I made you who you are!"

Jon could now see Sansa's face from where he stood, lit by the flickering flame that lay nearby. Jon could see how angry, and tensed she was. So he was surprised to hear her laugh as she said, "I have not fallen for anyone, Petyr, and you have not made me who I am. The truth is, you needed me as much as I needed you, and you need me today or you wouldn't have brought me here. So why don't we cut to the chase?" Petyr was breathing hard from all the exertion of keeping Sansa from turning, and he loudly whispered as he run his hands all over Sansa's chest, hugging her from behind, "That's my girl...yes, I need something from you. I need you to plant some evidence that will lead the Dragon Queen to thinking that Jon is resposible for tomorrow's events..."

Sansa spoke, her voice heavy with tension, "What will happen tomorrow, Petyr?" Jon held his breath with anticipation; part of him wanted to rip Littlefinger's arms off Sansa, but another part wanted to see this through. Sansa could handle it, Jon told himself, despite his heart telling him that just because she could didn't mean she should have to. Baelish laughed, and said, "Oh, it is quiet beyond the comprehension of your little mind, but I will give you the summary - tomorrow the queen will lose all of her power over her precious dragons..." Sansa's body stilled at this, eyes widening, but Baelish mistook for submission, he pulled down her hood and caressed her hair with his hands. It shone like a beacon in the moonless, cloudy night. Sansa laughed nervously, and asked, "How is that...how can you even do that?" Baelish pressed himself harder against her, and Jon could see fire in her eyes. She barely kept her composure, but she was determined to get the last drop of truth. Ghost shuffled noiselessly behind Jon, his own anxiety echoed in his red eyes. Baelisg said leisurely, his mouth against her throat, "Let's say, I had a little help from my eastern friends, who dabble in magic. That is the world we live in now, Sansa, magic and madness..." his last word was slow purr, his eyes drooping with lust, as he kissed Sansa's cheek. Sansa wasn't having any of it though, and she turned her head away, quietly saying, "You are not gonna tell me who these friends are, are you?" Baelish didn't answer, instead put his hand on Sansa's belly and said, "Enough business, sweet one, let me taste you; I haven't seen you in such a long time -" Sansa struggled you get out of his clutch, and pleaded, "Petyr, no...let me go! The guard will wake up soon and they will be looking for me -" Petyr said viciously as he grinded against her back, "No one, is looking for you, dear! Went is dead, and by the time they realise it, it will be too late, I will be gone but not until I have had you!" 

He reached down and made to lift her skirts, but his grip on her slipped for a moment and that one moment was all Sansa needed. She kicked his right knee behind her, and Petyr yelled as Sansa jerked her hand entirely free of him and spun around. She punched him in the face, and shoved him away. His knees buckled, and Sansa tried to run away but Petyr's outstretched hand close around her ankle and he dragged her down. He was on her in the blink of an eye and pinned her hands above her head. Sansa cried out in anger, and Jon was out of his hiding spot and ready to slash the monster's head off, but stopped dead on his track as he saw what Baelish held at her throat. It was a knife, and he pressed it right at the side where Jon knew one small cut will kill Sansa in seconds, draining her of blood. If he startled Baelish, if his knife moved, Sansa could die. How did he let it come to this? Fear and anguish pervailed his mind. Ghost whimpered behind him. Jon heard Baelish say, "Lie still, and do as I say, or I will cut your throat." Sansa immediately stilled, but spat at him venomously and yelled, "You wouldn't dare! It will destroy all of your plans! Jon will never go to the negotiation if I die tonight, and you need him there for it to work, don't you?" Jon could see the madness in Littlefinger's eyes, he could see that the man was capable of anything in the moment. Petyr kissed Sansa, shoving his tongue down her throat, before replying, "Or, I could fuck you, slit your throat, and pin it on them, making it all the more likely that Jon would seek revenge!"

Sansa cried out in disbelief, "And then what? There will be war, what will you gain? You are nothing without me beside you. Who will even look twice at you? Who will even picture you on the throne?!" Petyr just grunted heavily, and ripped the front of her gown, leaving her naked from her waist up and shivering. Jon had had enough, he had to take the risk. Ghost, reading his mind, jumped ahead. Petyr, maddened with lust, didn't see him flying at his throat until it was too late. Ghost slammed into him, both the animal and the monster tumbled into the snow, away from Sansa who was almost buried in the snow. Jon came running at them, but stopped right at her side, helping her up, trusting ghost to keep the wretch busy. Jon helped her up and noticed with horror that she was bleeding from where Baelish had cut her throat. He heard Ghost's wail as Baelish knifed him, shoved him away and made a run for it, Jon knew it all. But all that he was seeing was red, as blood dripped onto Sansa's beautiful throat, onto her breast, staining her pale nightgown.

He knew Ghost's wound was only superficial, because the animal quickly got up and chased after Baelish, but Jon couldn't think of anything as he sat there with Sansa in his arms, pressing the wound with his hand, trying to stop the blood gushing out. Her eyea were half closed, but she concentrates her gaze on him. She was drawing her breaths heavily, as if she was breathing under water, and said to him, "J...Jon, you have to get me...back, Jon!" At that, at her words which seemed to be drenched in blood, he came to his senses. He gathered her up in his arms, and sprinted towards their camp.

***

Jon sat lividly by her side as the maester tended to Sansa. He had assured her that the wound was not as bad as it had initially seemed, and that none of the major blood vessels was cut, that she likely to recover well without any permanent damage, Jon knew in his heart that it will never be okay. Sansa might get better one day, and Daenerys would heed his warnings about her dragons and urge her to move them to safety, and they might even win the war against the night creatures; but until he had Petyr Baelish beneath his feet, until he crushed every bone in his body and cut out his fingers and toes one by one, let frost take his limbs, until he cut his wrists and watched him die a slow and painful death, then burn him in a pyre, everything would not be okay.

Ghost had come back, with a huge gash on his side, and was being tended to. He would be okay, Jon knew, but the thought of him hurt, even a little weighed on Jon's mind. Guilt washed over him in waves, sending rivulets of nausea and ache throughout his body. Had he really just stood by, watched his wife get tortured for information? He had counted on the fact that Petyr was affectionate of Sansa, and would never be a real threat to her. He had counted on the fact that this was what Sansa would want too, for him to wait until she had all she could get from Petyr; but what about what he should have wanted? Would Ned ever stand by, and watch Catelyn be groped and held against her will? What would his mother think, if she could see him?

Jon was brought out of his reverie when Davos came in, and sat beside him quietly. The maester excused himself, saying he would come back to change her bandage and apply some salves in the late morning. Davos put an arm on Jon's shoulder, and patted him awkwardly, as if to offer his condolences. Sansa was put in fresh nightclothes, and then bundled in felt covers. She was asleep, a bandage adorned her neck, her face and lips a little blue from the blood loss. She looked troubled and wordlessly mouthed words in her sleep; not at all like the troubled sleep she had always had, when she screamed and thrashed. It was as if she had no strength left in her to fight the demons tonight.

After some time, Davos spoke up, "I have had the warnings sent to Daenerys Targaryen, although I don't know how she will take it. I have heard that she hates to be parted from her beasts. She could take it for a threat and things could escalate." Jon sighed and put his face in his hands, and said, "I cannot think about these things, not tonight. I d..." but before he could finish, Davos interjected firmly, "But you have to, Jon! There is no rest for the righteous, no repose." Jon looked up - "That does not sound like something you would say, Lord Davos." The old man smiled sadly, and said, "Suppose it does not; somebody read a story about a young king to me once, I remember the line from there. I understand your pain, my king. But Baelish is still out there, and he could still carry out his plans, and there could be war. We must prepare. You must tend to the needs of your people before you tend to those of you own." When Jon remained silent, Davos went on, " Maybe if you met with the Queen, and tried to persuade her in person, show her goodwill..." 

Jon stood up from his chair, frustrated, and screamed, "You understand nothing, Lord Davos! Nothing! We are so caught up in our cause, in our survival, but what do we live for? What really makes life worth living? Honour. Devotion. Love. And I have betrayed them all today, I have let myself down!" Davos was used to angry outbursts from him, but still Jon had managed to surprise him. Sansa stirred in her bed at the raised voices, and anger dissipated from Jon's countenance, only to replaced by despair. He whispered, "Leave me be, please. There will be no more deliberations, either my aunt believes me or she doesn't, there will be no more negotiating. I will not go around, trying to convince people who will not be convinced, people who do not see the threat as plain and evident as the sky, exchange mindless and pointless pleasantaries while my wife lies here unconscious. Leave us be!"

And he wasn't saying that to Davos, he was saying that to the world. To the gods, old and new. Jon was tired, and after Davos finally left, he got into her bed and carefully held her close. Sansa shifted ever so slightly, and leaned her head upon his shoulder.Jon slowly drifted into a fitful slumber under the covers, her warmth touched his skin but couldn't melt the frost deep in his bones, right to the core, right in his heart.


	23. Ecstasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From hereon, I will be making a lot of shit up that might have no basis of the original content. And in the end of the chapter, Jonsa finally happens. As always, enjoy.

Jon sat at his table, in his tent, and looked down at the list of things he had to address as soon as possible. Every single day, the list grew longer; every day something new would go wrong. One of them were the fact that Daenerys Stormborn had yet to reply his raven. Sources informed him that the Dragons were still in King's Landing, so Jon could guess what she thought of the letter. Then there was the reports that the soldiers were getting restless; they had been sitting idly in their camp for far too long. It cost them a pretty penny too, feeding and accomodating such a large army; the houses who had taken on the role of financing it all had started to get restless too. Jon had to assure them somehow, that the wait was worth it.

Since Petyr was still at large (it had been three days that Jon's people were looking for him), the possibility of any kind of sabotage was still weighing on all of their minds. The other members on the council had skewered Jon on why he had sat on the information, but had the decency to not bring up Sansa's involvement. Jon sometimes wondered if he scared them a little. Ravens had been passed back and forth, letting the Eyrie know about the betrayal of Baelish, about his attack on Sansa, and his threats against the crown. The Vale had detached themeselves from the world ever since then, the way they used to be before the second northern revolution. But there wasn't any apparent malintent, nor were they overly saddened by Petyr's fall from grace; still Jon wondered if they would aid him in the war. He would also have to appoint one of the knights of Vale as the official representative, and ask him to assure his homelands of Jon's good faith, despite all that Baelish had done.

Jon looked over his shoulder, onto his bed, where Sansa lied sleeping. Her chest heaved up and down, softly, her head rested on her arms. She had woken up, and had seemed alright except for an angry red gash on her throat. She had nit said much, too weak to even get up; she was in a great deal of pain, so the maester had suggested keeping her sedated for now. Jon had her moved to his tent, so he could keep watch over her at all times. After what happened with Went, and the greedy maid, Jon could no longer trust anyone. Not his best soldiers, or even the most innocuous servant. He administered her potions and tonics himself; the only hands he trusted were his own. Looking at her now filled his heart with the same mixture of longing and ache as it always had; she looked vulnerable, but content. He wondered when he would get to kiss her smooth mouth again, he wondered if the day would come soon enough.

Looking at her also reminded him of Bran, her little brother, who was on the top of his list of worries. Jon and Bran kept regular correspondence, and Jon had received the most disturbing letter from him. The attacks on the villages around the wall had become more frequent, reports of dead people not staying dead had become a usual affair, and Bran reported of an entired village being burned to the ground after their attempt to burn their dead went awry. He had also received a letter from the lord commander of the Night's Watch, requesting more men and resources. The situation was escalating in the North, there were food shortages all around, and Bran urged him to move as soon as possible.

Jon cursed inwardly at the entire situation, and cursed at the strong willed aunt who won't even answer his letters. Jon seriously doubted if she would ever accept Jon's terms, and was coming to realise that maybe they should head back home and fight the white walkers while there still was something to defend. What good will the dragons do if Winterfell was already lost? Jon threw the parchment away with the force of his frustration and got up, running his hands through his hair. He startled when he heard Sansa say, "What's wrong? Why are you upset?" She was awake, and looking at him with her huge baby blue eyes full of sleep and concern, framed by heavy dark circles. She made to get up, and Jon rushed to her side and put his hands on her arms, gently barring her movement. "Sansa, don't get up, you need to rest!" he murmured.

Sansa smiled, exhaustion deepening her laugh lines, and caught Jon's hands in hers. She moved them to her lips and planted chaste kisses on them and said, "I have had enough sleep to put me off sleep forever, Jon. And I feel much better, I think I should get up and get some air." Jon didn't reply, he just took Sansa's sharp cheekbones in his palm. He ran his fingers down to her throat, and caressed the smooth surface there. Thanks to Littlefinger, the other side will bear the mark of persecution forever. It will start out as a muddy red line, then pale pink, and ultimately, silvery white. They were much like the many marks Jon bore from years and years of sparring, battle and betrayal. Jon leaned down to kiss the creaseless skin, but Sansa lowered her head in the most opportune moment and he caught her lips instead. 

Jon kissed them and felt that they were dry and chapped; but Jon loved kissing them anyway. He had realised long ago that these things did not matter when all you could do was hold onto each other through the night and see another sunrise. Sansa broke the kiss and fell back into the bed, eyes closed, breathing deep and proved Jon's worries about her health to be true. Jon sighed, and kissed her temple. Sansa groaned and opened her eyes, catching his hand again, said, "I'm sorry." Jon replied, laughing, "Sansa, we can kiss later, when you are not too weak to hold you head up anymore." Shaking his head, he got up and started to look for the milk of poppy that the maester had sent by earlier. Sansa's weary monotone felt distant when she said, "No, not for that. For going into the woods to meet Baelish. I knew it was the most damned stupid thing to do if there ever was, and created all this problem for you. I think I heard you say you were going to capture him and try him and I, because of me he escaped." Jon whirled back and leaned on the chair beside her bed, "Sansa, I don't blame you for any of that. You must have heard that as well, what are you apologizing for..."

Sansa injected, "But I'd wager that the others do. I was too desperate to find out what Petyr had planned to destroy you, and I was not thinking clearly..." but her sentence ended in a rasp of pain. Jon decided he'd had enough - "Go to sleep, Sansa. We will talk about this later. Drink this, it will help you sleep." Sansa looked like she would fight him on this like she always had, but pain triumphed over rebellion; it broke Jon's heart more than anything else. He helped her gulp down the sedative, and turned around, leaving the tent without looking back.

***

Jon had fallen into a dreamless stupor when he was almost jerked awake by Tormund. It was barely even dawn, the stars still twinkling overhead, fighting against the new day with the last drop of their luster. Jon was asleep in the chair next to his bed where Sansa was fast asleep even amid all the scurrying noises that suddenly invaded Jon's consciousness, as he clumsily woke up. Jon's hand automatically reached for Longclaw, it lay on the table, and strapped it around his waist. Tormund asked Jon to follow with a gesture. And so he did, wordlessly, unwilling to wake Sansa up.

Tormund broke into a jog, and Jon hurried after him, throwing his queries, "What the hell is going on?" Tormund replied without even turning back, "The red priestess is here, with a dwarf, who claims to be the hand of the queen. I thought it'd be better if I got to you before Davos saw her and started something." Jon sped up to face the wildling, "But I banished her! And what is she doing with Lord Tyrion?" Tormund shrugged, and finally stopped in front of his tent. Looking left and right as if to check if they were being watched, he entered. Jon closed his fingers around the hilt of Longclaw, and followed him after a heartbeat.

Lord Tyrion turned around and gazed upon Jon's face with concern. Jon quickly searched him with his eye but there was no weapon except for a small dagger; as for Melisandre, she was cloaked in a heavy woolen cloak, not red as she had markedly wore before, but grey. Jon promptly said, "What is the meaning of this? Are you here at Daenerys's behest? If so, why is the secrecy and why is the child-murderer here with you?" The ice in his voice settled in the quiet tent, but Tyrion was unhesitating when he replied, "Slow down, young king. One question at a time... and as for the child murderer, she has been a staunch supporter of my queen. And I know she has done heinous things in the name of the lord of the light, but please hear us today. Or else, you will rue this day for the rest of your life."

Jon took a deep breath, and looked over at Tormund. But he was as baffled as Jon, there was no comfort to be found there. "But you are not here at Daenerys's bidding, are you?" Tyrion's mouth quirked upward, as he said, "The queen is adamant that her dragons cannot be harmed now that they are grown, and readily decided that you are trying to trick her. But our priestess here claims that it is possible, and hence we are here. I am supposed to be Lannisport-bound, but I decided to take a detour, and Melissandre came with me." Jon whispered, "So you believe the threat is real?"

Melissandre finally looked up, out of the shadow that darkened her pale face; she looked as smooth as ever, untouched by the turmoil she always surrounded herself with. "King Jon, we meet again... but not under favourable circumstances. It is indeed possible to take a dragon out of the master's control; either drive the dragons mad, or take control of them yourself. The lores are a bit unclear on the exact operation, but there is said to be a horn that can do this." Jon took it all in; how had this become his life? Magical horns which you can use to command dragons? Does this mean if he could acquire one...

He felt Tyrion's eyes on him, as if he knew what Jon was thinking; the weight of the gaze banished the thought from his mind. He could never do that to his blood, Daenerys loved her dragons dearly. To lose them might kill her, even. Jon cleared his throat, "So Baelish has most probably discovered this horn, and intends to use it on Daenerys. Why hasn't he, then? We have searched for him everywhere, and could not find him. So what's stopping him?" Tyrion looked surprised, "You are. Your people, your eyes are everywhere. It's stopping him from getting to King's Landing unseen." Jon nodded, and said, "So what are we to do? If we cannot find him, we must take some sort of counter-measure!" Melissandre sighed, "There is no known ward against this magic, for it is old. It originates from Valyria; the fires in the mountains gave birth to Dragons, and from this fire was this horn built as a weapon, for dragon-lords were a jealous bunch. They lusted after each other's dragons; wars were waged and eventually laws were placed in the land that prohibited these horns. But some survived, and as it seems, survived the test of time and decay."

Jon said exasperatedly, "All this tale, but it doesn't really help us. If I find it anyhow, how would I destroy it? Burn it in the fire? Why are you even here, risking charges of treason, Lord Tyrion?" Tyrion clasped his hand together and seemed to ponder Jon's queries, his blue eyes filled with a sadness Jon could not place. When he finally spoke, he said, "I am here because I care for this world, this realm very much. And I know you do too; a man who died protecting the people, but somehow came back and took up the mantle to protect them yet again, at great personal costs, he must have such goodness of heart that has not been seen in Westeros in a long, long time." Jon did not know what to say, so he stayed quiet; Tyrion wasted no breath, and left with haste. Melissandre lingered, eyeing Jon like she always had, as if he was a piece of jewelry she was appraising. Jon returned her gaze with his dark eyes, and said with equal measure, "Never set foot in my domain ever again," and left.

***

Sansa woke up to see that the sun had set, and the camp was quiet. Her tent was empty, the doorway flapping in cold evening air. Ghost slumbered idly at the foot of her bed, looking innocent, and at peace. Sansa wished she had peace, but she did not. Even in her drug induced sleep, she was plagued by the nightmares and horrors of old. She quickly decided that she would not take any remedies henceforth, and got up to clean herself over the basin in the corner of the room. 

She felt okay now, despite what Jon and the maester thought about the matter. Her wound had started to heal, she no longer felt dizzy, or feeble. She felt like herself again, walking around the tent, changing into something that wasn't completely shapeless and white, and making herself some hot tea. A stray piece of paper on the table caught her eyes, and she walked over to examine it. She immediately knew Jon's handwriting, and that it was a list. But as she read on, Sansa realised how much time she had spent wasting away in her bed, curled up in Jon's embrace, while Jon was fighting all of his battles by himself. Actually, she herself was one of the battles; Sansa gritted her teeth and was about to curl it up in a ball, when he heard the guard outside stamp his feet in a salute. 

She put the paper back on the table and smoothed down her dress. She found herself checking her hair in the mirror before remembering that Jon had probably seen her drool on her pillow, and still loved her. Who cared about hair?

Jon's face peeked into the tent, cautious feet followed - he did not want to wake her up. Sansa's heart filled with infinite tenderness for this man, she called out to him, "Jon!" He startled, which transformed into a nervous laughter when he saw her standing there. Sansa held her arms out, and Jon walked right into her embrace. Sansa had hugged Jon a hundred times, but there was something electric in the air this night. Sansa breathed him in, drawing closer but Jon pulled out and took her hand, drawing her towards her bed. He made her sit down despite her protestations, mumbling about 'need for rest' and 'maester's order'. He flopped onto the bed as well, propped up on his arm, half lying across Sansa, and took her hand in his again. They sat there for who knows how long, chatting about everything and nothing, the state of the fire and if it needed more wood and the state of Westeros. Sansa wanted to tell him so much and ask him so much, she felt like their time was ending, she could feel that this love was fleeting, she wanted to spend all her time with just him and nobody alone. It was irrational, her fear, but it was also something ancient and cognizant. She knew better than to question it.

The candle was flickering when Jon started to talk about his day, and suddenly he dropped his and drew closer. Sansa leaned toward him to hear him better, and he told her about Lord Tyrion's covert visit, and a magical horn that broke a master's bond with their dragon. Sansa's skin prickled at the news, she hadn't an inkling that such things were even possible. Jon looked somber, even as he sat lazily he seemed alert and Sansa felt angry once again; they had to deal with so much, Jon had to deal with so much. And for nothing. This winter might kill everyone, leaving nothing to salvage, no one to rule. Why was Sansa even here? She had nothing to gain from this war anymore. If Baelish had such a weapon, he would most definitely unleash the dragons, they would lay waste to everything in their path; Jon's brilliant idea to use them against the white walkers would be futile, and either they die by the dragons or they'll die by the Others. Jon nudged her knee, and asked, "Penny for your thought? Or perhaps a silver stag?" Sansa could not keep herself from frowning before she answered, "Petyr can employ his weapon any moment now, and we are not safe here, so close to King's Landing, if that happens... "

Jon straightened up and put his hands on her shoulder, his face wonderfully close to hers, and said, "Yes, I know, my darling. We will make for Riverrun tomorrow, armistice isn't possible with Daenerys anyway, no point in idling away here. I can't help her if she does not want my help..." Jon shrugged, though his voice was laced with venom. He was angry at the queen, Sansa thought with a hint of mirth. Jon continued, "Anyway...she may attack while we are in retreat, but I think that is unlikely. I don't want you or any of my people to be near when Drogon goes mad and sets out for supper," he smiled at her reassuringly, placing his cool fingers between her eyebrows, straightening out the wrinkles. But Sansa couldn't feel the warmth in his touch today, and she whispered, "But Jon, we might not have much time left." Jon sat very still, his fingers now settled at the nape of her neck; the fired flickered in his bright eyes. Sansa saw the hesitation, clouding the lust that was evident in his flushed cheek, but desire won out in the end.

Jon moved his mouth to her ear and whispered deliciously, "Then I suggest we make the most of it, whatever little time we have."

***

Jon was kissing her like there was no tomorrow, which wasn't that far-fetched. Sansa kissed him with equal thirst, her tongue briefly running over his lips but hhe could feel that she was tense. Her whole body was vibrating with a nervous energy; why would she be anxious? How could she possibly not see the love he felt for her? Jon decided to pour his heart out into his next kiss, and Sansa tugged at his collar, drawing him in so he tumbled onto the pillows with her. An involuntary laugh escaped her mouth, and he could feel it reciprocated with his lips, rather than see it. He no longer saw or breathed Sansa, he felt her in his blood. If there was any hesitation on his part about being with Sansa, he completely shed it this night. How could something that felt so good, so right, could be anything but?

They kissed and kissed and kissed for what seemed like many moons and many nights, their mouths were everywhere. Lips upon lips, lips upon each other's pale cheeks now flushed with blood, his lips upon the velvety skin of her chest, and down. Sansa shivered at his nibbles, clearly enthralled but Jon kept checking with her, if she was okay with it. Jon knew she was just back from a very bad injury, and as much as he wanted surround her with himself, he remained afraid that he might hurt her. He wanted to keep going down but Sansa urged him upward so she could kiss him, and then she took off his shirt. Her gaze lingered on him, appreciating, her chest rising and falling as she laid among the cloud of soft red hair. She looked absolutely gorgeous, a bit otherworldly, and she was his as he was hers; body and soul.

Jon felt himself blush, and then felt embarrassed at blushing at all because grown men don't blush. But this love between them was so fragile and so hard earned, it was breathtaking for him to take the white slip off Sansa, the last stitch of clothes on her, the final barrier between his skin and hers. He traced the crevice where her soft breasts met her belly and down. Sansa trembled at his fingertips, and it set his nerves on fire, fueled by anticipation. He rolled over, and looked up to see her gazing down, her lips slightly parted, her hair askew. Jon loved the view, preferred it even - to run his hands up and down the smooth skin of her thighs, of her arching back, her hair tickling his shoulder. There was no going back now, and the buildup of emotion over the course of months poured out of him and encapsulated them in a bubble. Soon he forgot everything else but Sansa, this moment was more important than a thousand victories. And Sansa started to move to the rhythm he set, Jon focused on her face which was beaded with sweat even in the throe of winter. The world swayed with the sway of her hips, her moans the sound of harps to his ears, and he could feel his reality slowly shatter with the force of their ecstasy.


	24. Ecstasy II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading. Please leave a kudos if you like it and let me know in the comments what you think of this chapter. Have a great day!

Sansa had had a man inside of her before, but it was all torture before. It was all about dominance and reiterating her place to her; she was always lying face down, her nose pressed against cold beddings, her arms held tightly against her back. Ramsay had torn off her underclothes the first time; not out of passion, out of contempt and his sadistic proclivities. He invaded her body, made her feel like a pound of flesh. After marrying Jon, the prospect of sleeping with another man had become real again. But Sansa knew Jon, and knew that he would sooner die than hurt Sansa that way; still she worried about the possibility, dreaded the pain and humiliation for Sansa did not any other kind of lovemaking.

Oh, how wrong she was - Sansa fleetingly thought as she writhed over his body, his fingers softly brushing against her chest. Sansa's legs felt like they had melted into nothingness, washed away into the pool of her desire. They trembled when Jon ran down his hands over them. Jon did everything with care, and it seemed he even made love with an infinite amount of devotion. When Jon thrusted his hip, Sansa did not feel like he was taking her. She felt like he was giving her all of him, and when he looked up at her, their eyes locking, he smiled. Sweat beaded over his eyebrows from the exertion, his arms and collarbones also slick, but he looked like he was over the moon right now. And Sansa could relate very much.

When she couldn't take it anymore, even the best sensations in the world would ultimately drain you in the end, Sansa brought down her mouth upon Jon's. He looked truly lost into her body, but focused on her once she was kissing him fully. He carefully held the good side of her throat as he turned her over so that now he was on top of her, and their pace quickened. Sansa didn't want it to end, but this upward spiral was way too delicious to resist. And then suddenly just liked that, Sansa was lost in a flurry of emotion as Jon collapsed on her.

They lay there, wrapped in each other's arm for hours it seemed, neither of them caring to move away or get dressed or even sleep. Sansa cradled Jon's face on her breasts, and Jon had sneakily wrapped her leg around his hip while she was running her hand through his soft curl. Sansa laughed softly and chided, "Surely you don't want to repeat that? Not so soon?" Jon lifted his head and rested his chin on the soft plateau of her chest, "Not unless you want me to," a mischievous smile played on his lips and he ran his hand over Sansa's hip and dragged it down suggestively. Sansa's heartbeat picked up at this, but the soreness between her legs pleaded otherwise. She sighed a contented sigh and whispered, "Maybe in the morning, my love." The light in Jon's eyes dimmed a littile, but then he gave a small laugh as he abruptly sat up, as if he had another idea. Sansa, curious, propped herself up on her elbows and raised one eyebrow at him.

Jon blushed slightly at the thought of whatever he was thinking of and Sansa could only imagine what he was thinking of doing to her; fear tried to pry into her heart, but her complete trust in Jon kept them at bay. Jon lifted the furs, and pushed her legs apart again. Sansa was hesitant, thinking he meant to have sex with her again, but Jon reached up and kissed her sweetly and said, "No, my queen. I don't intend to tire you out again; you just...you lay down and relax." His eyes were almost too hot to look at, and it melted her gaze on him so now she could not look away. Naked Jon was just so damn beautiful, lithe and strong, and he slithered far into the covers, leaving a trail of kisses on her stomach and right down to her cunt.

Sansa was tempted to gasp, but instead she closed her eyes and gave in to the pleasure. His scruffs tickled the sides of her legs as he kissed her down there. For a second time in a short while, Sansa was gone from the earthly plain. She knew back in her mind that she should probably feel embarrassed at such a thing, normally she would have blushed crimson even at the thought of it, but the part of her mind that was in control did not care about such things. Sansa threw down the cover on the floor, she didn't feel the chill anyway. She wanted to see his face, his eyes as they looked up at her, his sinewy back. Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist, and put her hands over Jon's where they massaged her breasts. Their sweat mingled and cooled in the winter air, and Sansa trembled at the cold trail it left. By the time Jon was done, Sansa came again and again, the list roiling around deep in her belly in waves. Jon scooped the cover from the floor, and embroiled them in its warmth. He picked up some hair that had got stuck on her face because of the writhing and moaning and sweat, and kissed her cheeks which were now flushed. She could barely meet his eyes now that the reality came back to her. She was also in awe with him. She closed her eyes.

***

Jon murmured, "Hey, are you asleep?" Sansa opened her bright blue eyes full of carnality, Jon bit back his desire to make sweet, sweet love to her again. She swallowed, her eyes lingering on his lips and said, "You. Are. Magnificent. I am in love with you." It was short and simple, but Jon's breath catched in his lungs. He was going say all this and more to her. But he couldn't. He rolled his head around to stare up above him, and wondered if all this love and happiness of this stolen moment meant he would lose everything tomorrow. He dreaded how the gods will settle the score. He dreaded if they might take Sansa away from him or take him away from her. It was not a pleasant thought, but Jon could not ward off this evil. In his dream-visions, he had made love to Sansa a hundred times, and they had children and they had lived a long life; but in some of them he was betrayed and killed by her, and in one she had been poisoned by Littlefinger. What was the point of the gift of prophecy if he couldn't even discern which was real ans which wasn't? 

Sansa's faced bobbed into his vision, her hair spilled over her ears and onto his chest. She smiled indulgently, but her tone was serious when she asked, "Are you worried? You look worried, your brows are all scrunched up as they do whenever you get worried," she nodded knowingly. Jon tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and replied, "I am a little worried, yes. This thing about dragons..." Sansa cut him animatedly, "Because you are a Targaryen, doesn't it mean that you could potentially ride a dragon?" The dream-vision he'd had of riding a green dragon to the wall came unbidden to his mind, and he shook his head as if to shake it loose. Jon replied sullenly, "I could, in theory. But the only surviving dragons belong to my aunt and she is not keen on sharing them." Sansa's eyes glinted with that shine that always made Jon uncomfortable, like she was planning something and making a fallback plan to that plan; but she remained quiet for a long while.

Suddenly she rolled around and got up from the bed, giving Jon a full view of her naked form (which he didn't mind at all). She put on a dressing gown unfortunately, and came back to bed after splashing her face with water. Jon followed her movements with his eyes, staying silent. Whatever Sansa was brewing had a chance of becoming another thorn in their relationship, like the Edmure Tully thing. But decided to keep an open mind. He inquired good naturedly after she had settled next to him, "Okay, are you ready to tell me your grand scheme?" Sansa looked over at him warily, and said, "You won't like it. But maybe, if the dragons are so important in the winter's war, and Baelish could potentially drive them insane and thus unusable, and lastly, since Daenerys has shown no signs of cooperation, maybe you should take one from her and ride it North for safekeeping. Baelish cannot pursue you to Winterfell, the snow is too deep."

Jon blanched at the thought of stealing someone's pet, someone's companion. It would be like somebody stealing Ghost from him; as if she could read his mind, Sansa hurriedly added, "I am not talking about stealing. Daenerys has two extra dragons whom nobody is riding, they stay inside their keep most of the times and Dragons hate confinement. That's what Lord Tyrion used to stay. You can lay claim over one of them, as your birthright." Jon ran this over and immediately located the catch, "But just because I am a Targaryen, it does not mean Daenerys would just hand me one of them. She is the one who brought them to life through the trials of fire. And she does not even fully believe that I am really Rhaegar's son." Sansa bit her lower lip as she concentrated on his words, and retorted unsurely, "But Lord Tyrion's coming here incognito and passing you the information about the Dragon-horn, it must have been to indirectly drive you to claim one dragon. I'm sure of it."

Jon replied testily, "Just because Lord Tyrion wants it, does not mean I have to do it." Sansa raised her hands in surrender, shaking her wild mane of red hair, "Nobody is asking you to do his bidding. But Lord Tyrion is a wise and cunning man, and one should always at least consider his advice." Jon could not argue with that; he himself had been wondering what to make of his impromptu visit. Sansa mused distantly, "And you being able to ride a dragon successfully, will that not be the ultimate proof that you are a Targaryen? Historically, only men and women of that bloodline have been able to bond with those beasts." Jon scoffed, "Assuming Daenerys even lets me near Rhaegal..." Sansa's eyes perked up, "The green one? Any particular reason you want him?" Jon shook his head reproachingly, "Sansa...you talk about picking dragons as if we are talking about adopting a stray dog. The truth is, even if I do get my chance with a dragon, I could end up dead. Many have died, attempting to tame dragons."

"You won't," Sansa said simply. "You rise to every challenge thrown at your way, and you own every battle you are forced into. I have complete faith in you, as does the entire North. And dragons went extinct, and soon afterwards, the Targaryens. Now both have come back; I don't think you are meant to be kept separate."

After that, Jon fell into a circle of reflection. Surmising that Jon was not in the mood to talk anymore, Sansa pulled up the covers and cuddled in Jon's outstretched arm. She fell asleep soon afterward. The heavy rhythmic breathing from Sansa beside was hypnotic, Jon's consciousness swayed and slipped out of his grasp. He fell into the hyper-realistic vision world, and prepared his mind for yet another glimpse of the probable future.


	25. Smoke Rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter isn't too loopy!
> 
> Also, how are you all enjoying the show? I am already so pissed at everyone! 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and continuing to read. I love you guys.

Jon woke up the next morning late, and found the bed empty next to him. 

Waking from the dream that he had had, which he had believed to be the reality even moments before awakening, his mind went into overdrive. He jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and headed out to make sure Sansa was alright. He stepped out and the all seemed well, a normal day for the Northerners. They had been blessed with good weather, which had come down to just no snowfall and no fog at this point. The sky was overcast, no sunshine to bask in for weeks in a row and the wind chafed against Jon's cheek. Jon quickly found his young wife in a heated battle with his wildling lieutenant, Tormund.

Smiling faces of Brienne and other spectators assured him that this was another lesson for Sansa, the aspiring swords-woman. Last night's memories came unbidden as he beheld a perspiring Sansa, her hair sticking to her forehead, lips parted in laboured breathing. Jon blushed despite himself. Strangely, she was wielding the Stark family sword, Ice. Jon's ears felt hot, blood running so fast through his veins that he was afraid he will spontaneously combust. Wait, he actually felt really hot despite the cold weather. Jon looked around him and really concentrated, and the veil came off the vision realm just like that. Jon was still dreaming, none of this was real, at least not yet.

Not willing to see any more conflicting prophecies about Sansa, he turned and quickly exited the small clearing they used as the training area before anyone saw him. Usually he was a spectator in these dreams, unable to dictate where he went or what he did. Today something was different...off. Jon kept walking, not thinking at all, going where his feet took him. Suddenly Jon felt the ground harden under his feet, and he stared at his feet to discover that he was no longer treading the snow covered grass but rather a moss covered rocky pathway that wound around a mountain. He looked up to see that the sky was no longer grey, but clear and blue. The air was stiflingly humid, and sweat beaded his temple. Jon treaded carefully so he doesn't trip on the slippery moss and fall to his death, but the next moment he remembered that this was a dream and therefore he was quite safe. But he could not relax.

After walking for hours, Jon reached the peak. Sweat coated his entire body, but there was a cool breeze blowing at the higher altitude, which made the summer heat bearable. Jon soon discovered that this wasn't just any mountain, but a volcano. An active one. The peak was hollow, and in the void below molten lava swirled and hissed. The rim of the volcano was wreathed in beautiful white flowers; the whole scene did not look formidable at all despite itself. Yet tension coiled in his belly. A voice startled him almost into the magma that sizzled not two feet down; Jon whirled around to see a young man who looked like Daenerys's long lost twin. He had the same silver hair, clear blue eyes and delicate elfin features. His voice sounded like bells whistling, and he talked with a thick accent. Jon remembered with a jolt that this was the same man who informed him of his true parentage; he had had wings before - today he stood as boldly and regally as before, minus the wings.

"Jaeherys," the man raised his arms, "my son." The words got stuck in Jon's throat; the man wore a pitch-black plate armor, with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen decorated in rubies on its breastplate, complete with a chain mail beneath; he was in complete battle gear, but had no helmet on that hid his beautiful face. This was Rhaegar Targaryen. The man smiled kindly, and strode towards him. "I would have loved to talk to you about so many things, taught you all the crafts a prince should learn, gone hunting with you, and so much more but..." Rhaegar cupped his cheek in his hands with so much affection, that Jon blushed slightly. The realization didn't help, that how much he had craved this in his childhood and still did. To be so cherished, and wanted, not shunned and hidden away. He didn't have to finish the sentence, Jon understood. Only if things hadn't gone so wrong, Jon could have had an entirely different life.

"You have your mother's hair. Raven. And her eyes too. How beautiful I had found them, the first time I laid eyes upon her," Rhaegar beamed. Jon's enchantment broke at the mention of Lyanna. Jon found his voice, and grumbled, "Why did you abduct my mother? Couldn't have found someone who wasn't already betrothed, and you know, willing? A prince like you had no shortage of noble-women, I'm sure." Rhaegar looked rather hurt at his accusations, and replied, "Is that what you believe? What you think of me?" His voice carried a hint of wounded pride and melancholy in it. "Lyanna was suffocating under her family's well-intentioned dictation. She did not love Robert, her father had shoved that betrothal upon her. She was a free spirit. I didn't snatch her away from her beloved or anything, believe me, no one could have made her do something she did not want to do. We eloped. She loved me. You are a child of pure love, never let anyone tell you otherwise."

Jon felt like jumping into the lava.

Also, he wasn't much convinced. The only person he would believe in this regard was Lyanna Stark herself, who was yet to show up in his dreams. And wasn't Rhaegar married to some Dornish princess at that time? How exactly was their love pure, then? Jon decided to change the topic, and raised his arms, "What is this? Where am I? And how are you alive?" Jon knew that although this was a dream, he really was talking to Rhaegar, or at least his essence. But his dreams had never brought back people to him, he never ever saw Ned or Robb or most of all... Ygritte. His father smiled with his sad eyes, "This is the Kingdom of Valyria, son. And I am not alive, I'm merely a collection of memory that survived through the mystical trees way up into the north, you wouldn't know them..." Jon snorted unkindly, despite of himself, and said, "The weirwood trees? I know them, Rhaegar, I was raised in Winterfell." He stopped himself short of an eye-roll.

A glassy look came over Rhaegar's eyes, confusion and incomprehension marred his beautiful blue eyes for a moment. But he seemed to shake it off, and resumed, "Right, right. You were. Anyway, the reason why I am here...they thought you would comply more easily if you were met with someone close, someone you perhaps would want to talk to. But you have come with me, Jaeherys; and you will be shown the path you ought to take." Jon gulped down an eerie feeling, looking at the timeless face of his father and resisted the urge to scream at his face that he was neither eager to get to know him, nor was he going to be told what to do with his life. But there was really no point in fighting a bad memory, the past could not be undone. So he simply asked, "What path?" Rhaegar dramatically waved his hand towards the bubbling liquid fire beneath them, and said, "You have to jump into this fire...I don't know why, no point in pestering me about it. Don't worry, I will do it with you."

Jon looked from Rhaegar to the pit and back to Rhaegar a couple times before steeling his heart, and walked over to his father in quick, long strides. He nodded, and they both jumped to their deaths.

***

The fire didn't kill Jon; actually, it felt little more than the warm licks of a candle. Also, it was only a moment before he was standing on a flat, rocky arena. It was cradled by a series of mountains, which rose so high that their peaks were lost in the clouds. The air was heavy, dense. Rhaegar was nowhere to be found, Jon looked around him with a twinge of wistfulness. 

A huge, heavy shadow fell upon him, and even before Jon had looked up, he knew what cast it. The shadow loomed larger, closer, and a blast of wind threw his stray locks every other way as a large scaly beast came to rest right in front of him. It was dark as night, with ruby eyes, and its wings were probably even bigger than itself. It's blood red eyes were fixated upon Jon, and Jon froze. Dread washed over him in waves, the sense of imminent danger seized him and turned him upside down, squeezing his intestines into a knotted mess. Father's now familiar voice came wafting into his ears, as Rhaegar casually appeared atop the dragon and said, "Fear not, Jaeherys, dragons don't hurt other dragons. Usually," he chuckled. But his eyes bore into Jon's as he said, "And you, my son, are a dragon. You will be the best of them all, the most legendary, the prince that was promised! Come!"

Jon looked over helplessly at the man. How was he supposed to get on the dragon? Surely it will burn him alive if he moved? Jon huffed out a nervous smile, and asked Rhaegar, "Does it have a name?" That confused haze came over his eyes once again, as if he could not comprehend what was happening. He recovered within a moment, but not before Jon caught it. He replied, "Her name is not important, what is important that you pass the trials of fire. It will not be easy - even though you are in a dream, the threats ypu will face will be very much real."

Rhaegar's words carried a wisp of doom, but he looked chipper. Jon was growing wearier by the minute with his presence. He did not feel like a person, rather like an automaton who was programmed to capture the man his father once was; but like any replica, it fell short of the original creation. Jon shook his head to get rid of the heavy fog that swirled in his mind, numbing everything around him. "Trials?" Jon asked, dazed. Rhaegar dismounted, and ushered Jon to him, "Take her, and enter that cave." Just as Jon was about to say that he hadn't seen any cave around here, a deafening crack stole his words away. Jon turned toward the sound, and saw dust rising and loose pebbles escaping a large gaping mouth in the wall of the mountain. It led to darkness, and Jon had to venture into that. Caves stirred many emotions in him, but right now he was more curious than anything else. Anticipation flooded his veins, Jon had hated this rash part of him that always went rushing into dangerous situations. 

But he could not hate this part of him anymore, this recklessness. He had wondered before if he got that from his mother, since the Starks were the most level-headed fellows he had seen. But now he knew that it came from his Targaryen blood; fire mingled with ice. He was a force of contradiction. A strange sort of calm quieted all the whispering doubts in his ears. No trials could ever stand in the way of him claiming what was his birthright.

Before he went inside though, he turned around and faced the apparition of Rhaegar. His lips trembled when he looked upon his pale, beautiful face, not a day older than that day at the trident. He wanted to say many things, ranging from screaming vile insults to weeping at his feet; but he said nothing. Rhaegar broke the silence, "The long night will not wait for you, my son. I'm afraid, you must hurry. You are their only hope."

Jon finally found his voice, "Father, I will not disappoint you."

Rhaegar smiled, although his eyes were sad, and said, "You never could, Jon. You never could."

***

Sansa looked overhead, the sky was clear and beautiful for once, wholly unbothered by the carnage and bloodshed under it. But since when has the gods even cared about those who lived below them? Mortal lives were dispensable.

Sansa stood, sword in hand, with Brienne by her side. Although, swords were nothing against fire-breathing, flying monsters, completely out of control, with their master nowhere to be seen. This wasn't an attack from Daenerys, this was Petyr. It had to be. Who would let three dragons loose at the crack of dawn? They had burned down half of their tents, and snatched a few soldiers from the ground. But as soon as Davos had been informwd of their coming, he had ordered full retreat. They were to run for their lives and regroup later on, if possible; and it had saved many lives. He had not waited for Jon's command, which turned out to be a great instinct since Jon had slept through all of it. The dragon not-so-sneak attack, the screming and screeching, Brienne hauling him on her shoulder and running through the forest for their lives...none of it had woken him up.

Sansa had woken up right before first light, feeling content for the first time after so many years. She should have known that things were about to go horribly awry after the night she had had, the very best of her life, after waking up with the most coveted man in Westeros in her arms. The afterglow had not lasted much long as Brienne burst into their tent to inform her of the dragons. It might have been embarrassing under normal circumstances, but Sansa had bigger worries in her mind than her knight seeing her tits.

Sansa had flown out of the bed to get dressed, tasking Brienne to wake Jon up. But when she had emerged from behind the screens, Jon was still passed out as if he had finished with an entire distillery. So Sansa grabbed his sword, and his crown, and Brienne grabbed a scantily clad Jon, and they gathered what crownsguard they could find and made for the cover of the woods.

A whole day had passed, a new dawn arose right in front of Sansa, and Jon had still not woken up. Sansa, on the other hand, had not slept at all. She stayed awake, praying, beseeching for any sign if life from Jon except for a steady but barely audible heartbeat. Jon often thrashed and talked in his sleep, and Sansa had wished whatever ailed him might come to pass. Sansa thought bitterly as she stood on the bank of a river, that it was true what they said - be careful what you wish for.

Sansa had been worried sick, so sick that she could not bear the confines of that tent. Threat loomed all over, dragons killing her men, white walkers threatening her brother, and mystery illness had taken Jon. And there was nothing she could do, nothing at all.

Sansa looked over at Brienne, who silently stood by her like she always did. Sansa spoke with a voice that threatened to break at any pressure any moment now, "That sword, Oathkeeper, it is made from Ice, isn't it?" Brienne seemed taken aback by her sudden interest in the longsword, but it was all Sansa could do to keep her mind off of the heartache that bloomed like black dahlias inside her chest.

The knight replied, "Yes, milady. Ice, the Stark family sword, was a broad sword. Only fitting for a man so honourable and capable as Ned Stark. The Lannister men, they could not weild it, I think, and decided to reforge it into two parts. Oathkeeper's sister is Widow's Wail..."

Sansa muttered bitterly, "Who has it now, then? Joffrey is long dead, and who knows what happened to Ser Jaime? It would be a shame to lose a Valyrian steel sword like that, in this Winter's war. It would be a shame to lose a Stark relic like that," Sansa drew Longclaw out of its sheath and held it firm, "It would be a shame that for the first time in centuries, Ice will not pass from father to son - or father to daughter. And it's a shame that I have played my part in that tragedy."

Tear spilled over her red cheeks; Brienne did not placate her, thank god. She did not offer any consolation whatsoever. They stood in silence until Brienne put her hand on her shoulder, not motherlike at all, but as woman to woman, knight to queen, friend friend, and said, "We all make mistakes, your grace. And it is all we can do to try and redeem ourselves, only salvation can save us from ourselves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you have made it to the end. Now do the noble thing and give me a kudos; you could comment as well.


End file.
